Ghost Flower by Michele Jaffe

recognized him as Thomas Trident [38, Silverton family lawyer, newly married to Aunt Claire, likes antique cars and cooking, doesn’t like Uncle Tom jokes, estate depends on terms of prenup].
    Standing beside him, her posture so straight she looked like she had steel in her spine, was the woman I’d come to meet.
    Althea Bridger Silverton’s hair was a surprisingly chic helmet of silver. Even though it had to be nearly midnight and she must have been roused from bed, she was wearing a silver pendant over her rose ruffle-front blouse, and her beige trousers had a perfect sharp crease running down the front. She had the wan thinness and rigid posture of someone who was ill, but somehow on Althea it came off as glamorous. Maybe it was the large framed glasses, the tint partially concealing her eyes, but I had a fleeting image of her sitting at a white clothed table at a chic bistro in Paris, moving small pieces of lettuce around on her plate, sipping Chablis and smiling as men with thin cigars said witty things to court her favor like an elegantly aging French film star. The only sign that she was anything but calm were her knuckles, taut from gripping the chain of her Chanel shoulder bag so tightly.
    Would she believe I was her granddaughter, or wouldn’t she? The female detective was saying, “We’re still running her prints against—” But Althea silenced her by raising one perfectly manicured finger.
    She crossed the room toward me, taking her time. The air seemed to get more densely packed with each step, heavy and with the scent of gardenias. She stopped a foot from me and stared long and hard through the tinted glasses.
    My mouth went dry. My heart was racing. Her face was an unreadable mask. Without any change in her expression, her hand snaked out and slapped me hard across the face. “How dare you come back like this?”
    Welcome home, Aurora.
    “Althea, we should at least wait for the fingerprint—”
    “Shut up, Thomas,” she barked. “It’s her. No one else would have the gumption to behave this way. Come on,” she said, moving toward the door. “We’ll deal with you in private.” There was fury in her voice, but beneath it I could have sworn I heard an undertone of excitement.
    Her nails dug hard into the skin of my arm as we left the station.

CHAPTER 12
    W e walked down the steps of the police station like that, with me pinned next to her, and toward a large dark blue Mercedes parked at the curb. When she was still a dozen stepsaway, a man got out of the driver’s side and opened the door for her.
    In all the photos I’d seen of Arthur Redmond [Silverton’s chauffer since before Aurora was born, drove because he loved it, net worth more than $3,000,000], he had wrapped his large, mahogany bulk in a navy-blue uniform with two rows of gold buttons marching down the front. Now he was wearing khakis, a pink-and-white-striped button-down open at the neck, a brown belt with a sterling silver buckle, and slippers with playful-looking terriers embroidered on them. Apparently even chauffeurs got to go casual when dragged out of bed at midnight.
    Althea turned to him and said with a sigh, “I’m afraid you will have to come back later for Thom.” As though that were the big inconvenience of the night.
    “Of course, ma’am,” he told her. Turning to me, he added, “And if I may, it is nice to see you again, Miss.”
    “Thank you, Arthur,” I said. I hadn’t even realized I’d used his name until I caught the flash of a look pass between him and Althea, and was glad I’d done it.
    But Althea’s tone was still devoid of warmth as she pointed to the door and said, “Come along, Aurora. There is no reason for us to stand gabbing like parrots in the street. Get in the car.” She let go of my arm, and I saw her savor the sight of the red gashes her nails had left.
    Bridgette, Bain, and I had spent dozens of hours rehearsing this first conversation alone with Aurora’s grandmother, plotting out