Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [53]
It was a greeting that never failed to delight Megan, herself an only child of cold, judgmental parents, sparing in their love and praise. As Meg was trading her boots for high-heeled sling-backs, Michelle, the third blond Dagger sister, swept her up in yet another bear hug. Laughing, Meg held her champagne aloft with difficulty to avoid a spill. She fairly purred with pleasure.
“Sisters,” Meg murmured. “The divine Dagger sisters.”
Thom also hugged her and took her overnight bag up to a guest room he called “your room,” which made her laugh even more. If only it were true.
As the party kicked in, she got buzzed enough to enjoy herself. She remained gracious in the presence of the unendurable ugly neighbors, listening to the sad story of their surly daughter’s latest drug-fueled escapade.
Meg exchanged air kisses with Paula and tolerated her whining about her faithless French husband, the delicious Henri. And then there he was. Henri. He did indeed show up—how dare he?
There was a breathless pause as every conversation stopped. Then Anise strolled over and, after the briefest moment, standing before him—would she kiss him or slap him—kissed him on both cheeks. “Henri.”
“Chère Anise,” Henri murmured, holding her hand to his lips. He was darkly handsome with his perfect stubble, kissable mouth, and single diamond earring. The Dagger sisters couldn’t resist him. He enhanced their blond beauty with his own dark European charm. He took a flute of champagne and prowled around the party, providing titillation and frissons of mock horror wherever he circulated. He looked every bit the dissipated Eurotrash he was, lured back, no doubt, by the realization that all the money was from Paula’s family and was still in Paula’s name.
Megan gave a warm hug to Anise’s lackluster daughter Celia and shook hands with her tall, damp-palmed boyfriend. Then she made a point of bonding with the more beautiful daughter Carrie and her college friend Lulu, a blond look-alike from Boston. Meg prided herself on remaining hip—dropping pop culture references and pertinent song lyrics from the latest Grammy winners and catchphrases from hip TV shows like Gossip Girl.
Carrie, tall and glamourous, was particularly striking tonight in a low-cut, short, creamy silk Grecian tunic, which showed off her considerable cleavage and long, tan legs. With her father’s lanky grace and the Dagger blond beauty, Carrie was a remarkable girl and she had always loved Megan. Her friend Lulu, every bit her match, wore a white angora minidress, which had to have been planned to coordinate with her friend.
The college kids were amused by Megan and stayed with her for some time, laughing and making sly comments about the other guests before trailing down to the large family room to warm up the karaoke machine for later. Megan smiled with satisfaction. The Daggers were a large, close-knit WASP clan so unlike Meg’s own small, disaffected, heathen brood. She adored them all and would do anything for them, anything at all.
Meg got some more champagne from the jeroboam of Moët that Michelle Dagger’s brash alcoholic husband insisted on bringing every year. He never tired of hearing the women coo and squeal about how big it was. Meg never tired of drinking good champagne so she endured his usual size-really-matters jokes with aplomb.
Then came the scream. Because Meg observed her stringent party regimen, she was sober, or sober enough, to respond quickly when she heard it. She was the first to arrive in the doorway of the darkened den off the living room, lit only by Christmas lights and candles and typically functioning as a sin bin for guests’ brief, illicit, champagne-fueled encounters.
Meg stopped abruptly in the doorway, causing other party guests to pile up