Celia Avery was a cool patrician beauty with fine-boned features and silvery-blond hair she wore in a sleek pageboy. She was originally from Boston and had an East Coast aloofness that could come across as snobbish or haughty—though over the years I grew to think it fit in well with the polished patina of the Avery family’s reputation as old Southern aristocracy. Whenever I saw Celia she always looked perfectly pulled together in expensive tailored clothing and as if nothing got under her skin. Tonight, based on her body language, something definitely had gotten under her skin. I took a wild guess: the Miranda Foundation gala.

Dominique stood up as we joined them. Today my petite cousin’s auburn hair looked as if she’d hacked it off herself with pruning shears and it stuck up in wild tufts. She was dressed, as usual, with the innate style and confidence every Frenchwoman possessed, wearing offbeat clothes no one else could get away with and looking smart and stylish. Though she’d given up smoking a few months ago, she flashed an SOS at me that I knew meant she’d kill for a cigarette just now.

“We don’t mean to intrude,” I said, “but Hassan said there are no more tables available until later tonight and—”

“Pas de problème. He texted me, so I knew you were coming.” She was smiling but her voice sounded strained. “Celia and I just finished our business conversation. Please join us.” She cast a look at Celia, who gave a stiff nod and started to rise.

“Actually, I should be going,” Celia said. “Nice to see you, Lucie, Quinn.”

“Celia,” Dominique said, “you just ordered coffee and dessert. Please stay.”

Celia’s lips tightened and she sat down. So did Quinn and I. A waiter appeared and we quickly glanced through our menus and both decided to have the carbonnade. Quinn asked for a beer; I ordered a glass of Willamette Pinot Noir.

Quinn broke the silence first. “So how’s everything going with the gala?”

Dominique looked like she wanted to strangle him for asking and I found his foot under the table and gave it a kick. I caught his eye as he realized belatedly that he had just waded into a swamp of alligators.

“Awful,” Celia said immediately. “Worse than awful. I’ve been telling Dominique all evening that we really ought to cancel it. With this criminal investigation hanging over everyone’s heads, no one wants to go through with it. Guests are backing out and canceling left and right.”