Blue Bloods bb-1 Page 5

  Most of the home's seven bedrooms were locked and unused, and draped fabric covered most of the heirloom pieces. Schuyler always thought it was a little like living in a creaky old museum. Her bedroom was on the second floor— a small room she'd rebelliously painted a bright Mountain Dew yellow, to contrast the dark tapestries and stuffiness of the rest of the house.

  She whistled for Beauty, and a friendly, gorgeous bloodhound ran to her side. "Good girl, good girl," she said, kneeling down and hugging the happy creature, letting it lick her face. No matter how bad a day she'd had, Beauty always made it better. The beautiful animal had followed her home from school one day last year. The dog was a purebred, with a glossy dark coat that matched Schuyler's blue-black hair. Schuyler had been sure her owners would come looking for her, and she had put up "Found Pet" signs in the neighborhood. But no one came to claim Beauty, and after a while, Schuyler stopped trying to find her rightful owner.

  The two of them loped up the stairs. Schuyler walked inside her room and shut the door behind her dog.

  "Home so soon?"

  Schuyler nearly jumped out of her coat. Beauty barked, then wagged her tail, galloping joyfully toward the intruder. Schuyler turned to find her grandmother sitting on the bed with a stern expression. Cordelia Van Alen was a small, birdlike woman—it was easy to see where Schuyler got her delicate frame and her deep-set eyes, although Cordelia usually dismissed remarks about family resemblance. Cordelia's eyes were blue and bright, and they stared intensely at her granddaughter.

  "Cordelia, I didn't see you," Schuyler explained.

  Schuyler's grandmother had forbidden her to call her Grandmother, or Grandma, or as she heard some children call them, Nana. It would be nice to have a Nana, a warm and chubby maternal figure, whose very name spelled love and homemade chocolate chip cookies. But instead, all Schuyler had was Cordelia. A still-beautiful, elegant woman, who looked to be in her eighties or nineties, Schuyler never knew which. Some days, Cordelia looked young enough to be in her fifties (or forties even, if Schuyler was being honest with herself). Cordelia sat ramrod straight, dressed in a black cashmere cardigan and flowing jersey pants, her legs crossed delicately at the ankles. On her feet were black Chanel ballet slippers.

  All throughout Schuyler's childhood, Cordelia had been a presence. Not a parental, or even an affectionate one, but a presence nonetheless. It was Cordelia who had changed Schuyler's birth certificate so that her last name was her mother's and not her father's. It was Cordelia who had enrolled her at the Duchesne School. Cordelia who signed her permission slips, monitored her report cards, and provided her with a paltry allowance.

  "School let out early," Schuyler said. "Aggie Carondolet died."

  "I know." Cordelia's face changed. A flash of emotion flickered across the stern features—fear, anxiety, concern, even?

  “Are you all right?"

  Schuyler nodded. She barely even knew Aggie. Sure, they'd been going to the same school for more than a decade, but it didn't mean they were friends.

  "I've got homework to do." Schuyler said, as she unbuttoned her coat and shook off her sweater, peeling each layer of clothing until she stood in front of her grandmother in a thin white tanktop and black leggings.

  Schuyler was half afraid of her grandmother, but had grown to love her even though Cordelia never showed any inclination of reciprocating the sentiment. The most palpable emotion Schuyler could detect was a grudging tolerance. Her grandmother tolerated her. She didn't approve of her, but she tolerated her.

  "Your marks are getting worse," Cordelia noted, meaning Schuyler's forearms.

  Schuyler nodded. Streaks of pale blue lines blossomed in an intricate pattern, visible under the skin's surface, on the underside of her forearms all the way to her wrist. The prominent blue veins had appeared a week shy of her fifteenth birthday. They didn't hurt, but they did itch. It was as if all of a sudden she was growing out of her skin—or into it—somehow.

  "They look the same to me," Schuyler replied.

  "Don't forget about your appointment with Dr. Pat."

  Schuyler nodded.

  Beauty made herself at home on Schuyler's duvet, looking out the window toward the river twinkling behind the trees.

  Cordelia began to pat Beauty's smooth fur. "I had a dog like this once," she said. "When I was about your age. Your mother did, too." Cordelia smiled wistfully.

  Her grandmother rarely talked about Schuyler's mother, who, technically, wasn't dead she'd slipped into a coma when Schuyler was hardly a year old, and had been trapped in that state ever since. The doctors all agreed she registered normal brain activity, and that she could wake up at any moment. But she never had. Schuyler visited her mother every Sunday at the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital to read to her from the Sunday Times.

  Schuyler didn't have many memories of her mother— apart from a sad, beautiful woman who sang lullabies to her in the crib. Maybe she just remembered that her mother looked sad because that's how she looked now, when she was asleep—there was a melancholy cast to her features. A lovely, sorrowful-looking woman with folded hands, her platinum hair fanned against the pillow.

  She wanted to ask her grandmother more questions about her mother and her bloodhound—but the faraway look had left Cordelia's face, and Schuyler knew she wouldn't get any more tidbits about her mother that night.

  "Dinner at six," her grandmother said, leaving the room.

  "Yes, Cordelia," Schuyler mumbled.

  She closed her eyes and lay on the bed, leaning against Beauty. The sun began to set through the blinds. Her grandmother was such an enigma. Schuyler wished, not for the first time, that she were a normal girl, with a normal family. She felt very lonely all of a sudden. She wondered if she should have told Oliver about Jack's note. She'd never kept something like that from him before. But she was worried he'd just call her silly for falling for some stupid joke.

  Then her phone beeped. Oliver's number flashed on the text message, almost as if he knew how she was feeling right then.

  MISS U BABE.

  Schuyler smiled. She might not have parents. But at least she had one true friend.

  CHAPTER 9

  Aggie Carondolet's funeral had all the trappings of an exclusive society event. The Carondolets were a high-profile New York family, and Aggie's untimely death had been fodder for the tabloids. PREP SCHOOL GIRL DEAD IN DOWNTOWN CLUB. Her parents had shuddered, but there was nothing they could do about it. The city was obsessed with the beautiful, rich, and tragic. (The more beautiful, rich, and tragic, the bigger the headline.) That morning, a phalanx of photographers stood guard at the school's gates, waiting to get a shot of the grieving mother (a dignified Sloane Carondolet, 1985's deb of the year) and the stricken best friend, none other than lissome It-girl-about-town Mimi Force.

  Once Mimi saw the photographers, she was glad she'd splurged on the Dior Homme suit by Hedi Slimane. It had been a bitch getting it tailored overnight, but what Mimi wanted, Mimi always got. The suit was of black satin, with sharp, severe lines. She wore nothing underneath but an onyx choker. She would look fabulous in tomorrow's papers—the soupçon of tragedy making her an even more glamorous figure.

  Seating inside the Duchesne chapel was arranged according to rank, just like a fashion show. Of course, Mimi was given a front-row perch. She was seated between her father and her brother, the three of them making a good-looking trio. Her mother, stuck in a three-month plastic surgery safari in South Africa (facelifts disguised as vacations) couldn't return in time, so Gina DuPont, a beautiful art dealer and close friend of her father's, had accompanied him to the funeral.

  Mimi knew Gina was actually one of her father's mistresses, but the knowledge didn't bother her. Growing up, she'd been shocked by the constancy of her parents' extramarital affairs, but when she was old enough, she'd accepted the relationships for what they were—necessary to the Caerimonia Osculor. No one could be all things to one person. Marriage was for keeping the family fortune within the family,
for making a good match, akin to a sound business deal. She'd been made to understand there were some things that could only be satisfied outside of a marriage, some things that even a loyal spouse couldn't provide.

  She noticed Senator Llewellyn and his family entering through a side door. Bliss's stepmother strutted in wearing a floor-length black mink over a black dress; the senator was wearing a double-breasted black suit; Bliss was wearing a black cashmere sweater and slim black Gucci cigarette pants. Then Mimi noticed something odd. Bliss's little sister was dressed head to toe in white.

  Who wears white to a funeral? But as Mimi looked around, she noticed almost half of the assembled guests in the chapel were wearing white—and all of them were sitting across the aisle. Sitting in the very front pew, leading the white-clad mourners was a small, wizened woman Mimi had never seen before. She noticed Oliver Hazard-Perry and his parents walk toward the front and bow to the white-garbed crone before finding seats in the far back.

  The mayor and his entourage arrived, followed by the governor, his wife, and children. To the man, they were all in the appropriate black formal dress and sat themselves behind her father's pew. Mimi felt oddly relieved. Everyone on their side of the room was wearing the proper black or charcoal garments.

  Mimi was glad for the closed coffin. She didn't want to see that frozen scream again, not in this lifetime. Anyway, it was all a big mistake. She was certain the Wardens would find some perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, some part of the cycle that explained the loss of all that blood. Because Aggie just couldn't be dead. As her father said, Aggie probably wasn't even in that coffin.

  The service began, and the assembled rose from their seats and sang "Nearer, My God, to Thee." Mimi looked up from her hymnal and noticed Bliss leaving her seat. She raised an eyebrow. After the chaplain said the proper words, Aggie's sister made a brief eulogy. Several other students spoke, including her brother, Jack, who made a moving speech, and just as quickly, the service was over. Mimi followed her family as they left their pew.

  The diminutive, white-haired matron who was sitting across from them walked over and tapped her father lightly on the arm. She had the bluest eyes Mimi had ever seen and was wearing an impeccable ivory Chanel suit and ropes of pearls around her wrinkled neck.

  Charles Force startled visibly. Mimi had never seen her father that way. He was a composed, regal man, with a mane of silver hair and a rigid military bearing. The lines on his face were grooved with the consequences of power. It was said that Charles Force was the real authority that ran New York. The power behind the powerful.

  "Cordelia," her father said to the old bat, with a bow of the head. "It is good to see you again."

  "It has been too long." She had the clipped, nasal tones of a true Yankee.

  He didn't respond. "A terrible loss," he said finally.

  "Extremely unfortunate," the old lady agreed. "Although it could have been prevented."

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about," Charles replied, looking genuinely perplexed.

  "You know as well as I, that they should have been warned—"

  "Enough. Not here," he said, lowering his voice and pulling her toward him. Mimi strained to hear the rest of the conversation.

  "Always the first to shy from the truth. You are the way you have always been, arrogant and blind….." the old woman was saying.

  "And if we had listened to you and sown the fear? Where would we be then?" he asked coldly. "You would have us cowering in caves."

  "I would have had us ensuring our survival. Instead, we are vulnerable once more," Cordelia replied, her raspy voice shaking with anger. "Instead, they are allowed to return, to hunt. If I had the authority, if the Conclave had listened to me, to Teddy—"

  "But they did not, they chose me to lead, as I have always done," Charles interrupted smoothly. "But this is no time to bring up old wounds and grievances." He frowned. "Have you—no, you haven't—Mimi, Jack, come here."

  "Ah, the twins." Cordelia smiled a cryptic smile. "Together again." Mimi didn't like the way the senile old thing was looking at her, sizing her up as if she knew everything about her already.

  "This is Cordelia Van Alen," Charles Force said gruffly. "Cordelia, the twins. Benjamin and Madeleine."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance," Jack Force said politely.

  "Ditto," Mimi snorted.

  Cordelia nodded complacently. She turned to Charles Force once more and whispered fiercely. "You must raise the alarm! We must be vigilant! There is still time. We may still stop them, if you would only find it in your heart to forgive," she said. "Gabrielle …"

  "Do not speak to me of Gabrielle," Charles said, cutting her off. "Never. I would never hear her name spoken to me again. Especially from you."

  Who was Gabrielle? Mimi wondered. Why did her father seem so agitated? Mimi felt angry and annoyed to see how her father reacted to the old woman's words.

  Cordelia's eyes softened. "It has been fifteen years," she said. "Is that not long enough?"

  "It is good to see you well, Cordelia. Good day," Charles said, a finality to his tone.

  The old hag frowned and walked away without another word. Mimi saw Schuyler Van Alen following her, looking back at them sheepishly, as if embarrassed by her grandmother's actions. As well she should be, Mimi thought.

  "Dad, who was that?" Mimi asked, noticing her father looking spooked.

  "Cordelia Van Alen," he replied heavily, then said no more. As if that explained everything.

  "Who wears white to a funeral?" Mimi sneered, her lip curling.

  "Black is the color of night," Charles muttered. "White is the true color of death." For a moment, he looked down at his black suit in dismay.

  "Huh? Dad? What did you say?"

  He shook his head, lost in thought.

  Mimi noticed Jack run up to talk to Schuyler, and the two of them began an intense, whispered conversation. Mimi didn't like that one bit. She had no idea who this Schuyler person thought she was, and she didn't give a damn if it turned out she was Committee material after all. She didn't like the way Jack was looking at Schuyler. The only other person he ever looked at like that was her.

  And Mimi wanted to keep it that way.

  CHAPTER 10

  Bliss hadn't been able to stand it. While the service was still going on, she had decided she had to get out of there. Funerals freaked her out. The only one she'd ever been to was the one for her great-aunt, and no one had even been that sad. Bliss could have sworn she'd overheard her parents say "It's about time" and "Took her long enough" at the funeral. Great-Aunt Gertrude had lived to a ripe old age of 110 years—she'd been featured on the Today show—and when Bliss had visited her at the ranch the day before her death, the old thing was as spry as ever. "It's time for me to go, my dear. I know it is, but we shall meet again," she'd said to Bliss.

  At least Aggie's wasn't an open casket, but it still made her feel queasy to think of a dead body in there, just a few feet away from her. Soon after they'd arrived, Bliss managed to wriggle out of sitting with her stepmother, who was too busy saying hello to all the other Duchesne moms anyway.

  Bliss stealthily made her way toward the exit. She caught Mimi's eye on the way. Mimi raised an eyebrow and Bliss mouthed "bathroom," feeling a little silly for having to do so. Why did Mimi keep such close tabs on her? she wondered, as she continued her way toward the exit. Mimi was worse than her stepmother. It was getting irritating. She slunk out of the back door, only to run into someone else trying to sneak outside.

  Dylan was wearing a narrow black suit, with a white shirt and a skinny black tie. He looked like a member of The Strokes. He smiled at her. "Going somewhere?"

  "It's, uh, hot in there," she said lamely.

  He nodded, pondering her statement. They hadn't really spoken to each other since Friday night, in the alley between the nightclubs. She'd been meaning to seek him out, just to apologize for ignoring him yesterday. Not that she had anything to apologize for,
really. After all, they'd just spent the night talking. It wasn't like they were friends or anything. No big deal.

  Except that it was. That night, he'd told her all about his family, and how he'd hated boarding school in Connecticut. She'd told him about Houston, how she used to drive her grandfather's Cadillac convertible to school, which everyone thought was hilarious. The thing was a boat—with proper fins. More important, she'd confessed how she didn't feel like she fit in at Duchesne at all, and how she didn't even like Mimi.

  It was liberating to have been so honest with him, although she regretted it as soon as she got home, traumatized by the fear that somehow he would find a way to tell Mimi what she'd confided in him, even though she knew it was impossible. Mimi was in the In-Clique. Dylan hung out with the misfits and losers. Never the twain shall meet. If he even tried to approach Mimi, she would cut him dead with a look even before he got his mouth open.

  "Wanna cut?" he asked. His black hair was combed straight back, and he wiggled his dark eyebrows at her invitingly.

  Cutting a funeral. Now that was an interesting idea. The whole school was supposed to be at the service. It was mandatory. The only class Bliss had ever cut was gym, one afternoon when she and her friends decided to go see some teen slasher flick. It had been a fun day—the movie was even worse than it sounded, and they'd gotten back to school without getting caught.

  At Duchesne, you were actually allowed to cut class twice a semester—it was part of the "flexible academic program." The school understood that sometimes, the stress was just too much and students occasionally had to cut class. It was amazing how even rebellion was written into the school's rules, everything so neatly tied into the whole rigor and logic of the place.

  But as far as she knew, no one was allowed to cut a funeral. That would be seriously transgressive. Especially because she was supposed to be one of Aggie's BFF's since they hung out in the same crowd.

  "Let's go," Dylan said, reaching out to hold her hand.