Page 15 of Murder on the Upper East Side

When it came to Hannah, they must have run a quick search, then filled in the blanks.Sounds like the kind of friendship that would make most people jealous. ‘New York’s Billionaires: Let Them Eat Dirt’ is quite a title.They hadn’t even been questions, just leading statements designed to make Hannah look like a woman still bitter about old high school grievances, with revenge on the brain. There was no doubt: these detectives already had their minds made up about her – just like her former classmates.

Hannah arrived at the base of the stairs, and a seaof heads turned. Slowly, a path opened in front of her. Alice St Clair frowned, then took two steps back, stumbling into Alex DuPont. He righted himself, then met Hannah’s gaze with a stony glare. Even Mr Harris gave Hannah a worried look. No one wanted to get too close to Killer Hannah Miller, which is exactly how she saw herself reflected in their eyes. Word had clearly spread that she’d been the first called to speak with police. They were afraid of her. They really thought she was capable of murder.

And while the detectives hadn’t openly accused her of anything, they clearly thought so too.Fan-fucking-tastic.

Someone brushed past Hannah on their way up the stairs with a polite, ‘Excuse me, Ms Miller.’ She turned in time to see Renee Caldwell on her way to the interview room. Surely the Head of School couldn’t be high on the suspect list, but the detectives probably wanted her help in closing some more gaps about Hannah and Madison as students. Which meant everything she’d just said about remaining friends with Madison DuPont was going to blow up in her face.

She was about to look very suspicious indeed.

28 September 2016

Instagram

Image: Elle Harrington and Theo Fitzgerald sitting at different lunch tables in the Prescott courtyard.

TheUpperEdgeTrouble in Prescott Paradise?Tsk, tsk,Theo Fitzgerald.

@Margaret_KensElle needs to kick his cute ass to the kerb already

@Alice_in_the_CityAw maybe they’ll work it out.

@Oliver_hates_olivesJustice for Gemma. Theo’s the cheater.

@BrunoPluto@Oliver_hates_olives oh puhleeeez that dirty skank knew exactly what she was doing

530 September 2016

It was eight o’clock on Friday night and the Harringtons’ annual autumn soirée, designed to mark a return to the city after summers spent on Martha’s Vineyard or abroad, was just getting started at their Fifth Avenue penthouse. Hannah hadn’t expected an invitation from Elle – or for her parents to allow her to go – but here she was, stepping out of the wood-panelled elevator and into a private vestibule with marble walls. Across from the elevator hung a small, ancient-looking portrait of someone named Claude Louis Harrington Devereaux. The plaque noted he had been an ambassador to France nearly a century ago.

Ever since Hannah, Beatrice and Bash had joined Elle beneath the oak tree on the Prescott courtyard three weeks ago, silently showing their support and giving Theo the benefit of the doubt, at least for the time being, Elle had been slowly including Hannah more and more at school, while Madison gave them all the cold shoulder. Still, Hannah had been surprised when Elle handed her a formal invitation,letter-printed on ecru card stock, this morning. It was last minute – surely Elle had waffled to the end about including a Fellow (gasp!) in a family gathering so steeped in tradition and the warm glow of the season – but it was, nevertheless, a nod of acceptance.

So here she was, entering the largest – yet most understated – apartment she’d ever seen. Occupying the entire top floor of a pre-war co-op overlooking Central Park, the Harringtons’ home had been arranged for the kind of old-world entertaining that encouraged discreet conversation, not selfies.

Bash Beaumont was perched on the roll-arm of a pale blue damask sofa in the formal living room, sipping a single-malt scotch and garnering a disapproving glare from the Harringtons’ butler. He wasn’t Hannah’s favourite person at Prescott, but right now, a conversation with Bash seemed far preferable to navigating the party alone. Much to Ami’s dismay, and Hannah’s too, the younger Miller sibling hadn’t been invited, and so Hannah had arrived feeling at a loose end.

‘Bash,’ she said, slipping onto the unoccupied cushion beside him and hoping she didn’t look too out of place in a simple black dress and the soft taupe cardigan Ami had insisted she borrow.

‘Miss Miller,’ he replied, raising his glass and peering down at her from his perch on the sofa arm. She adjusted her cardigan to cover her modest cleavage, suddenly glad for Ami’s loan. ‘Allow me to welcome you to your first Upper East Side soirée.’

Hannah’s eyes travelled around the room. Several well-heeled middle-aged couples mingled among Elle’s select list of invitees from Prescott. The gathering was intimate, but the apartment felt full. A young pianist wearing a royal blue gown played softly at the grand piano in the corner, and candles glowed in hurricane lamps on antique side tables. Everyone was drinking – scotch, dry gin martinis, a deep red Bordeaux.

‘Who are they?’ She gestured to the adults gathered beneath a pair of nineteenth-century landscapes in gilt frames.

Bash took a sip from his tumbler, then nodded first to Mrs Cynthia Harrington, née Kingsley, a petite woman with medium brown skin wearing a tea-length Gabriela Hearst evening dress, a pair of low-heeled Ferragamos and an unironic strand of natural pearls.

‘Kingsley as in The Kingsley Room?’ Hannah asked, recalling the lavish auditorium at Prescott.

‘Naturally,’ Bash replied with a smirk.

Her long black hair had been done in a twist, then fastened into place with a tortoiseshell comb. It was easy to see the source of Elle’s perfectionist tendencies. Beside her was a tall, clean-shaven white man in a navy tuxedo jacket, high-waisted trousers and patent leather opera pumps. Mr Andrew Harrington. Bash then rattled off the names of Elle’s parents’ closest friends and a few trustees from Mrs Harrington’s foundation. ‘And of course you know everyone from Prescott.’

‘Where’s Madison?’ Hannah asked.

Bash shrugged. ‘Elle’s in the library, which means Madison is out on the terrace with Bruno and Ethan. It’s a cold war. They’ll thaw eventually.’ He gave her a bored little eye roll that was so typically adolescent, it hardly seemed in accord with his burgundy pocket square or the muscles rippling beneath his double-breasted Brunello Cucinelli jacket.

‘Sure is taking a long time for the ice to melt. I thought they were best friends.’ Hannah leaned around Bash to peer into the library, a cosy room lined in walnut bookcases stuffed with leather-bound volumes. Elle sat on a worn-in club chair by the fireplace, which had been lit for the first time since spring, holding court. Theo sat stiffly at her feet. Elle wore her mother’s vintage Carolina Herrera, a cream silk dress with navy piping. With them, also at Elle’s feet, were Beatrice Whitmore and three other girls from Mr Harris’s senior seminar group, of which Hannah was now a part. The groups had been set since freshman year, and Hannah was the only new addition.

Bash laughed, and his lip curled into a sneer. ‘Prescott Academy is Elle’s domain, and Madison has the rest of New York. For the most part, this arrangement holds, but when something happens to rock the throne, things get frosty. Madison thinks she’s doing Elle a favour by steering her towards singledom now that Theo’s reputation is at stake, but Elle thinks Madison is interfering where she doesn’t belong.’