It was a balmy evening in the affluent enclave of Oakridge Estates, where the crème de la crème of society resided in their opulent mansions. The annual Summer Soirée, hosted by the insufferably pretentious Worthington-Smythes, was in full swing. The event, as always, was an ostentatious display of wealth and a thinly veiled excuse for the elite to engage in their favorite pastime: one-upmanship.

Amidst the carefully manicured lawns and meticulously pruned topiaries stood the pride of the Worthington-Smythe estate: a majestic oak tree, rumored to be over three centuries old. It was beneath this arboreal marvel that Millicent Worthington-Smythe had strategically positioned herself, holding court with a coterie of sycophants who hung on her every vapid word.

"I simply must tell you about our new chef," Millicent simpered, her voice dripping with affected ennui. "He's a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, you know. The margaritas he's concocted for this evening are simply divine."

As if on cue, a harried server appeared, bearing a crystal pitcher filled with the aforementioned libation. Millicent, without so much as a glance at the help, plucked a glass from the tray and took a dainty sip.

"Perfection," she declared, eliciting murmurs of agreement from her entourage.

The tranquility of the moment was shattered by a blood-curdling shriek. All eyes turned to Penelope Van Der Houghton, who stood frozen in horror, her gaze fixed upon the ancient oak tree.

"A bat!" she wailed, pointing a trembling finger at a dark shape clinging to one of the lower branches. "It's positively ghastly!"

The gathered socialites recoiled in disgust, their carefully cultivated composure crumbling in the face of this winged intruder. Chaos ensued as ladies clutched their pearls and gentlemen fumbled for their phones, unsure whether to call animal control or their personal assistants.

Amidst the pandemonium, a voice of reason emerged. It belonged to Dr. Reginald Featherstonhaugh, the recently retired professor of zoology from the prestigious Oxbridge University.

"Now, now," he intoned, adjusting his pince-nez. "Let's not lose our heads over a harmless chiropteran. I daresay it's more frightened of us than we are of it."

As the good doctor attempted to calm the frayed nerves of the assemblage, a curious series of events unfolded. The bat, seemingly agitated by the commotion, took flight, circling the oak tree with alarming speed. In its erratic trajectory, it swooped perilously close to Millicent, who, in her haste to avoid the creature, stumbled backward.

Time seemed to slow as Millicent Worthington-Smythe, pillar of high society, toppled unceremoniously into the pitcher of margaritas. The crystalline vessel shattered, dousing the hostess in its contents and leaving her sprawled inelegantly on the immaculate lawn.

As Millicent sputtered and flailed, her pristine Chanel gown now a soggy, tequila-scented mess, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. For there, glinting innocently amidst the shards of crystal and puddles of margarita, lay a small, metallic object.

Dr. Featherstonhaugh, ever the scientist, knelt to examine the curious item. "Good heavens," he exclaimed, holding it aloft. "It appears to be a listening device of some sort. Most peculiar indeed."

The revelation sent shockwaves through the gathering. Who would dare to spy on the Worthington-Smythes? And more importantly, what secrets did they hope to uncover?

As the partygoers buzzed with speculation, the bat, having completed its reign of terror, alighted once more upon the oak tree. In the fading light of dusk, one keen-eyed observer could have sworn they saw a tiny camera affixed to the creature's back.

The Summer Soirée, once a bastion of tedious small talk and passive-aggressive compliments, had transformed into a hotbed of intrigue. As the police were summoned and statements taken, one question lingered in the air, more intoxicating than any margarita:

Who orchestrated this elaborate eavesdropping scheme, and to what nefarious end?