Page 6 of Murder on the Upper East Side

‘Henry Alcott Winslow will be here?’

When Hannah had published ‘New York’s Billionaires: Let Them Eat Dirt’, she’d anticipated a flurry of vitriol from her former classmates – which had arrived right on cue, but she hadn’t cared. They hadn’t run in the same circles for years. But what she hadn’t intended was to shine the spotlight on Madison DuPont on the very day her billionaire husband announced his run for mayor. Not that she had any affection for Henry Alcott Winslow and his chickenshit centre-right platform, but Winslow was a known supporter of several news organisations in New York, and she hadn’t been trying to piss off a major sponsor of the very magazine she wrote for.

Fortunately, he hadn’t pulled his funding yet, but his presence tonight could be a complication for her follow-up article. The angle would be exclusionary establishments and multi-generational wealth, but for all she knew, Winslow was a member of the Lenox Club. She’d need to tread carefully, and decorum wasn’t what her boss had in mind.

‘He’ll grace us with an appearance, if we’re lucky,’ Bash deadpanned, but before Hannah could wonder – or bring herself to care – what bad blood existed between two of New York’s wealthiest men, another face caught her eye.

Emerging from the dining room and into the lounge was Elle Harrington, even more beautiful and polished than she’d been at seventeen. Elle wore a floor-length Carolina Herrera, her preferred designer dating back to adolescence. The metallic chiffon gown exposed one bare shoulder. Her skin glowed in the amber lights, and her loose, dark brown curls had been swept into a chignon. She paused, looking between Hannah and Bash, then made atsksound with her tongue. Bash may have found Hannah’s article ‘brilliant’, but clearly Elle Harrington did not agree. With a sharp jut of her chin, she beckoned Bash towards her.

‘Excuse me.’ Bash placed one hand on Hannah’s shoulder, then he was off.

Hannah spent the next ten minutes sipping her martini and avoiding her classmates. There were, of course, alumni from a range of years in attendance; Hannah spotted Madison’s younger brother Alex chatting with a couple of girls from their year, and for a few minutes, she fell into conversation with an older man who introduced himself as Frederick Tillinghast, class of 1964.

From the library, the grandfather clock struck seven. Had it not even been an hour yet? Christ. The welcome speeches were supposed to take place now, followed by dinner at seven-thirty, then an auction, then dessert, then dancing, and on and on until midnight. Of course, Madison DuPont was late, setting everything back.

Hannah sighed and slid her empty martini glass across the bar. ‘Sauvignon Blanc.’

This time, the bartender reached to open the wine fridge, without a word.

Just then, the heavy door to the Lenox Club swung open. She expected to see Madison breeze in; instead, her jaw slowly unhinged. At the door was her little sister, Ami, who was supposed to be in Japan. Hannah grabbed her drink and hurried over, where Ami was depositing her phone in the velvet bag.

She wrapped her arms around her sister, careful not to spill wine down the back of her baby blue gown.

‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. ‘Were you planning to tell me you were back in New York?’

Ami grinned. ‘I literally just landed two hours ago. Thought I’d surprise you.’

‘Well, consider me surprised. But didn’t you have another three days in Kyoto?’

‘I did. Until someone bought me a ticket to the gala and mailed it all the way to Japan.’

‘Someone, as in Dad?’ Hannah smirked. ‘A month away – both you and Yoko – and he’s been calling me three times a day. The poor guy is losing his mind without either of you around the apartment.’ Hannah lived in a two-bedroom on the Williamsburg–Bushwick border with a roommate she’d met online and never saw, but Ami, only two years out of college and making well under a living wage as a fashion assistant for some soulless publication in Midtown, still lived with their parents.

Ami shrugged. ‘Anyway, Mom convinced me to cut my trip short, so, here I am.’

‘Want to—?’ Hannah started to ask, motioning with her chin to the bar, but before she could get any further, the door swung wide again, and this time Madison DuPont and her billionaire husband stepped over the threshold. For a moment, Madison’s eyes met Hannah’s. Her glare was frosty, sending a sharp chill down Hannah’s spine. She took Ami’s arm and pulled her gently out of the way.

Madison was outfitted in a romantic couture gown, yards and yards of flowing peach silk and tulle roses. Her long red hair spilled halfway down her back in gentle waves. Beside her, Henry Alcott Winslow was broad shouldered and strong jawed. He was fifteen years her senior – Madison had made good on her intent to only pursue relationships with older men – but clean shaven and still youthful. Hannah took three more steps back; hopefully Winslow’s appearance tonight would be brief and she’d be spared an awkward run-in.

Soon, Bash and Madison were kissing each other’s cheeks and ushering everyone across the lounge and through the wide French doors, into the library. It was an intimate room, longer than it was wide, the space just barely large enough for seventy or so guests to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. On the wall to the left, three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves housed a curated collection of first editions, translations and vintage leather-bound volumes. A tall, rolling ladder affixed to brass rails allowed club members access to the topmost shelves.

Madison and Bash took their places at a pair of wooden lecterns before the courtyard-facing wall. Behind them, interspersed among dark wood panels, a series of stained-glass windows added a much-needed splash of colour to the subdued room – and created a visual barrier between the inside of the Lenox Club and the courtyard beyond. Everyone packed into the narrow room, and Hannah and Ami found a spot towards the centre of the crowd.

Bash began by welcoming the Prescott alumni to his family’s club. Some jokes followed about having rejected the membership applications of certain classmates over the years, and Hannah’s eyes fell to Oliver, who must have slipped in late. If Oliver still cared about the old slight, he didn’t let on now.

Madison took over then, reminding everyone why they had gathered tonight – to celebrate Prescott Academy’s hundredth anniversary, and to raise money for a state-of-the-art aquatics complex and science wing.

‘I was never much of an athlete – or a scholar – while at Prescott.’ The crowd tittered. ‘But the school was my home during my formative years, and it will always be a part of me. I hope you will open your hearts, and your wallets, at tonight’s auction, to ensure Prescott Academy remains the best of the best in New York for the next generation and beyond.’

Bash jumped back in. ‘I had the good fortune of spending Founder’s Day at Prescott this past January, this time as a donor to the school. I’m pleased to report that the old traditions are alive and well. Thebust of Elias Prescott was adorned in a truly hideous Hawaiian shirt for the occasion, and I watched two sophomores brought to tears by the words of encouragement left for them in the decades-old game of Hidden Letters. I can’t say I appreciated it for everything it was while a student there, and I certainly didn’t avail myself of all the academic resources’ – more tittering from the guests – ‘but Prescott is, truly, every inch the haven of tradition and scholarship it ever was, and we owe…’

The clack of heels on wood drew Hannah’s attention and she turned to look behind her, through the library’s French doors, flung wide to let in air from the lounge. A petite woman in a simple black gown and fitted green bolero strolled confidently from the bar towards the library, rocks glass in hand. It took Hannah a moment to recognise her old classmate – Gemma Phipps. Tonight, ‘the slut of Park Ave’ – Hannah winced at the cruel nickname – looked understated and refined. Her makeup was flawless, her long blonde hair pulled up in a twist. But what was she doing here? Gemma hadn’t graduated from Prescott, and thanks toThe Upper Edge, her senior year had been even more miserable than Hannah’s.

‘Oh my god,’ Ami murmured.

Hannah’s thoughts exactly. Why on earth would Gemma fork over the exorbitant ticket fee to support the high school that chewed her up and spat her out?

In swift, assured strides, Gemma made her way across the lounge and joined the crowd in the library.