Page 23 of 4th Silence
Suffice it to say, these are not my people.
In many ways. I’m too … hippy. Too casual in appearance, which, yes, maybe my act of rebellion in wearing slacks was ill-advised. But at the time, I thought it was a grand way of letting the filthy rich know I don’t need glittering gowns and jewelry to substantiate my worth.
Now, I see how I’ve more than likely insulted the uber-rich sequestered in this ballroom and brought unwanted attention to myself.
Lesson learned for next time.
Shaking my head over my misstep, I yearn for the quiet of my office. My studio and art and the victims who need our help.
That’s what I should be focused on.
In the hallway, I glance right, see no signs for a ladies’ room, and then turn left. Barely twenty feet away, I hit pay dirt.
The champagne I downed too fast gave me a buzz despite the appetizers I inhaled. Champagne has never been my friend.
Still, I don’t mind the effect. It’s sort of how I feel about weed. It allows me to let go of … well…everything.
Including the reconstructions—so many reconstructions—of murder victims who’ve been tossed away like trash.
We can’t solve them all.
That’s what Charlie likes to say.
Maybe not, but we can try.
Champagne.
Once again, I shake my head, trying to organize my scattered thoughts as I push through the ladies’ room door and find the first empty stall.
While I’m taking care of business, a blast of voices sounds as two women enter the bathroom. They’re not right in front of the stalls, though. It sounds farther. Maybe from the sitting area just beyond the wall of sinks.
“Mother,” a woman says, “why are you walking away from me?”
“Perhaps, dear, because my lipstick needs a touch-up and I don’t want to talk about this?”
The second woman sounds older. More haughty and highbrow, and I instantly recoil.
Not my people.
“Obviously,” the daughter responds. “Which baffles me. You’re the one always prodding me for donations for the auction.”
One of the toilets flushes while I finish my own business and stand to put myself back together.
“Can you blame me?” The conversation continues. “You work for a designer. Seems to me, you would have excellent contacts.”
“Yes. And they’ve donated. Plenty. The shoes Andre gave retail for $5,000.”
“And I’m grateful.”
“You’re also dodging the question.”
“Forgive me. What was the question, again?”
“The bag!” The daughter hisses.
“Lower your voice,” the older woman says.
Outside the stall, the other occupant washes her hands, and through the crack in the door, I spot her walking by. A second later, more noise erupts from the hallway, and then the room goes quiet again.
