Page 11 of Murder on the Upper East Side

‘You should know,’ Bash added, ‘that most Prescott students look down on the Fellows. But a few might try to take you on as a pet project.’

‘Madison’s my liaison,’ Hannah said. ‘Presumably, there’s some requirement to spend time with me.’

‘It’s a résumé builder, for sure,’ Beatrice said. ‘But Madison sees you as a fascinating specimen – so far from rich, you can’t even pretend to fit in. That’s the only reason she’s still talking to you.’

A dry laugh escaped Hannah’s throat. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s about to end. I pissed Madison off in the courtyard earlier, and for all her faults, I think Elle could use a friendly face.’ She looked from Beatrice to Bash. ‘You coming?’

4Friday, 12 June 2026

7:54pm

‘Don’t touch her!’ Ms Renee Caldwell, Prescott Academy’s Head of School, stood over Madison’s body, ushering Hannah and the rest of the crowd back. She was in her mid-sixties now, and stately as ever. Thick, silver hair flowed down the back of her deep maroon gown, and her lips were stained to match. She opened her clutch, then frowned and turned to Bash. ‘I assume there is a landline you can use to call the police?’

‘Right.’ Bash spun on his heel and shoved through the crowd towards the bar. His face was impassible.

The hook by the door, where the velvet bag of phones and other devices had previously hung, was now bare. Someone had stowed their electronics neatly away. Hannah’s gaze flew to the ceiling, checking the corners – no cameras either. The club’s motto floated once again through her mind.Privacy, preserved.Convenient, now that there had been a murder on the premises.

Madison DuPont was dead. And judging by the vomit leaking from her lips, it seemed without question that she had been poisoned. The Queen is Dead. The gala was now a tragedy, the Lenox Club a crime scene.

Elle Harrington was on her knees, as close to Madison’s body as Ms Caldwell would allow, sobbing. In the library, Theo had his arm wrapped around Alex DuPont’s slim shoulders. Madison’s younger brother stood stick-straight, his gaze seemingly locked on the stained-glass windows, a Victorian design featuring a dizzying kaleidoscope of golds and royal blues and forest green. Bruno Alvarez and Ethan Astor, Madison’s one-time devotees who had split up long ago, had reunited – not romantically, but in shared purpose. The pair scoured the area near the front door, behind the reception desk and under the bar, presumably in search of the missing bag of phones. The Lenox Club’s butler, conveniently, seemed to have abandoned his post. Perhaps he was currently securing their devices behind lock and key in a back room of the club.

Some guests stood in shocked silence, eyes locked on the corpse of their fallen classmate. Others had found seats in the lounge and shared in hushed conversations, heads bent together over small marble tables, vases of lilies pushed aside. In a deep leather wingback chair by the fireplace, Alice St Clair, who Hannah remembered as one of Madison’s many hangers-on in their senior year, sat quietly weeping into a fistful ofLCmonogrammed napkins. She was mousy as ever,but had put on weight since high school, and her already sharp nose and chin appeared especially pointy and furtive protruding from her full, pink face.

Several of the Prescott teachers in attendance combed through the crowd, handing out bottles of Acqua Panna from behind the bar and sharing comforting words with shell-shocked alumni. Hannah spotted Ms Clara Briar, her former AP Biology teacher, and Mr Paul Harris, her one-time senior seminar leader, among the faculty conducting impromptu wellness checks. Fascinating that even in times of tragedy, everyone assumed their roles.

As Mr Harris approached Alice with a bottle of spring water and a clean bar towel, Hannah met his gaze. He gave her a small, warm smile, but his eyes were glassy. He, too, looked on the verge of tears. With a nod, he turned to Alice and pressed the towel into her hands in exchange for her wad of napkins. Gratefully, she buried her face in the dry cloth.

‘Where’s Winslow?’ Hannah muttered to Oliver Morgan, who had elbowed his way to her side. He was dressed in flashy, emerald green D&G tuxedo pants, which Hannah suspected he’d picked to intentionally clash with the club’s dark oxblood and forest green décor. The matching tux jacket hung carelessly from the back of a nearby chair. The collar on his dress shirt had been popped, and the top two buttons were undone, displaying a diamond chain. His feet were clad in black velvet slippers, his eyes framed in bright orange Tom Fords. As he’d matured post highschool, Oliver had leaned hard into the ‘Euro or gay?’ paradigm, but the truth was neither. Oliver was proudly pansexual, and he was killing it as a lifestyle influencer. His mid-twenties look projected loudly that old money New York could get bent.

‘Slipped out during the speeches,’ he said. ‘Guess supporting Madison isn’t Henry’s forte.’

‘So he doesn’t know she’s dead?’

Oliver shrugged. ‘Someone should probably call him.’

Hannah looked to the bar. Bash was still on the club’s one landline, presumably with the police. She looked again to the empty hook by the door, then to Bruno and Ethan, who had retreated to a table in the dining room where everyone was meant to be on their second course by now. They sat in a pair of elegant dining chairs with upholstered ivory seats, not talking.

The butler had returned and was now peering through the tiny peephole in the front door.

‘Can we get our phones back?’ Hannah shouted in his direction.

Her voice disappeared into the din.

She began to shove her way through the crowd. ‘Excuse me? Where are our phones?’

Just then, the butler stepped back, opening the club’s front door with a practised flourish. In walked a man and woman in pressed grey suits and navy ties, flashing gold badges. They were followed by four uniformed officers. Bringing up the rear was a tall woman in black slacks and a black windbreaker sporting a logoHannah recognised as belonging to the Medical Examiner’s Office. The NYPD had arrived.

The uniformed officers ushered the crowd back while the medical examiner and detectives made their way to Madison’s body. A cold hand slipped into Hannah’s, and she started. Ami stood beside her, goosebumps raised across her arms.

‘This just got really real.’ Ami’s voice was strained.

‘Sure fucking did.’ Hannah stood on tiptoe, trying to get a look at what the detectives were doing, but the hallway where Madison’s body lay had been taped off, and two of the officers were hanging a black curtain from the ceiling with heavy silver tape, closing off the scene.

In the minutes that followed, a team of paramedics arrived, and Bash attempted to keep the mood light by setting up an alumna from the class of 1962 at the baby grand and getting behind the bar with his bartenders, taking orders. Drinks flowed. The club filled with nervous chatter while the detectives and medical examiner worked.

Twenty minutes later, the makeshift curtain had been taken down, and the paramedics wheeled Madison’s sheet-covered body out on a stretcher. The medical examiner walked beside them, mouth set in a hard line.

The room fell silent. Guests stepped out of the way, and three members of the waitstaff rushed to move tables aside and clear a path through the lounge.Suddenly, Elle lurched forward, towards the stretcher, and grasped at the sheet draped over her best friend’s body.