Page 11 of The Party Plot

People will believe anything if you have a good enough backstory, he remembered his dad slurring, in the little house that smelled like old newspapers and mothballs and bird shit and was slowly creeping its way down the pitted, overgrown lawn, back into the water. Obviously Casey had gotten complacent, because he’d forgotten parts of his.

A little crescent moon appeared under his text, and the message,Jamie Riggins has notifications silenced.

Of course he did. Maybe if Casey was a hungry raccoon, he’d warrant more of Jamie’s undivided attention.

But Jamie had been right, as always. Casey didn’t like Laurel, and he definitely wasn’t falling for him, but the man was still going to ruin all of his plans.

4.

Laurel took a gulp of his old-fashioned, watching the sleek bodies of the ponies thunder by across the deep green of the field, lines of sweat tracing lacy patterns down their flanks. His heart thudded in rhythm with their hooves. Though they were called ponies, they were full-sized horses, thoroughbreds with the agility of a cheetah and the force of a freight train. Laurel had loved horses as a kid, maybe even wanted to be one. The power and beauty when they ran, the sense of freedom. And all the goofiness and neuroses that each one had, when you got to know their individual personalities. He’d even played junior polo for a bit, but never gotten past the position of Number One.

A bad fall at fourteen had ruined all of his polo dreams, and Denise had sold his horse, Sunny, without asking him.

She didn’t forgive very easily.

Laurel cleared his throat. “How would you find someone’s employment history if it’s not online? Out of curiosity.” Casey Bright was on LinkedIn, but he was listed as self-employed, and had been forever. There were no clues about where he’d come from or why he was here. From what Laurel had managed to gather, he had just shown up in town one day and attached himself to Denise. And he definitely hadn’t been to Ibiza, so he was faking things on social media.

Chip made a face. Laurel knew he disliked getting legal questions when he was off the clock. “I guess you could always run a background check. But you’d need the person’s consent.”

“What if you don’t have that?”

“Whose employment history do you need, anyway?”

“Nobody’s. I’m just curious.” Laurel felt a little giddy. He took another sip of his drink, humming the opening lines of theAscot Gavotteto himself as the horses rushed past a second time. Polo matches always made him think of the Ascot scene inMy Fair Lady. His fingertips were vibrating with adrenaline, and he remembered how exciting it had been, to lean out from the saddle with his mallet in hand, just on the edge of off-balance, swinging for the ball. How it had felt like anything could happen.

“Well, if this hypothetical person were to have a criminal record, it would show up in a simple Google search,” Chip said.

“Right.” Laurel took a sip of his drink. He had tried that already and come up with nothing. Which should be a relief, right? Still, he was convinced that Casey Bright was hiding something. It was too convenient, his being here. And his background was too vague. Laurel didn’t trust him. If the Halloween ball was going to be Melody’s chance to get back into society, then it had to go perfectly.

“How’s Melody?” Chip asked, as if sensing his thoughts. “Are you staying with her?”

“No, I’m at the beach house.”

Chip frowned. “Somebody should stay with her. Someone should be keeping her from getting behind the wheel.”

“She’s fine, Chip. You’re worrying for no reason.” People had started to clap politely, and Laurel joined them without thinking, one hand tapping against the back of the one that held his glass. The first chukkamust be over. Raising his voice so Chip could hear, he continued, “She just had a bad day, that’s all.”

“You haven’t been here,” Chip said. “There have been a lot of bad days.”

But Laurel wasn’t listening. He’d seen a familiar head of hair and set of shoulders in a pastel suit coat, over by the drink cart. What was that color called anyway, salmon? And how had Casey gotten an invitation to a polo match? He really had insinuated himself into everything, and after only being here for a few months.

Laurel drained his glass. “Well, would you look at that. I’m out of liquor. I’ll be right back. Do you want anything?”

Chip shook his head tersely, but Laurel didn’t have time to worry if he was upset. He was already making his way through the crowd.

A hand on his arm stopped him before he could reach the drink tent. Sarah Ann Copeland stood blinking up at him from beneath a straw hat, oddly strong for a woman of a certain age, her grip on his shirtsleeve like a talon. Laurel struggled to free himself, murmuring platitudes, but she wouldn’t release him. Her eyes were a little wobbly, her expression earnest. “Laurel, sweetie, it has been ages since we talked.”

Sarah Ann Copeland was one of the church ladies. God-fearing and timid as a mouse, until she was talking behind people’s backs, or in her cups, threatening to put rat poison in the punch bowl at parties. She had always reminded him a little of a bushbaby, the way she stared and clung to arms.

“Sarah Ann!” Laurel forced enthusiasm into his voice. He cast around the crowd for another glimpse of Casey, but he had disappeared, and now Laurel was trapped.

“When will we see you at church again, Laurel?”

When Hell freezes over. “Oh gosh, I keep sleeping in. You know.”

Sarah Ann pursed her lips. “Yes, well, I’m sure you keep a busy schedule over there in Europe. It’s probably been hard re-adjusting to our way of life.”

Laurel ran a hand through his hair. Even after all this time, he found himself shrinking under the obvious judgment in her eyes. Everyone in town seemed to think he was some kind of playboy, fucking his way across Europe. Which maybe he was, but not in the way they imagined. And there were a lot of hiking trips through the Dolomites and museum visits mixed in with all the slutting around, thanks. Besides, there actually hadn’t been anyone since Casey, which was embarrassing in its own way. He rubbed the nape of his neck, skin feeling hot.

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