"That's a kind offer, Lou. But the Gala is under control."
"Is it? Then why hasn't Fredrique shown up yet.”
"I'm not using Fredrique this year and I already told him that three weeks ago."
Lamont's brows dropped down tightly over his eyes. "But we always use him. He does the parties for everyone who's anyone."
"Not anymore. After that fiasco last spring, when he tried to wedge live elephants into the Waldorf, people are seriously rethinking his creative urges. He also double-bills. Mimi Lauer says she's not using him again after the ballet's big event this season and I know that the museum wasn't happy with his performance, either."
She thought of Suzanna again.
"But I told him yesterday we were going to hire him," Lamont said through thin lips.
"Then you better call him back."
"So who are we using? "
"Me."
He laughed out loud. "We're talking about five hundred of New York's most important people and this is the first Gala now that your father's dead. You can't afford for it not to go well."
"We're a nonprofit charity. I'm not going to waste thousands and thousands of dollars just for advice on what color the tablecloths should be."
"He does more than that. He coordinates the food, the flow of guests—"
"All things I can do."
"But your father always—”
She cut him off with a level tone. "My father, as you pointed out, is dead. And Fredrique is an expense we don't need."
"Look, you know as well as I do, this town is a tightrope. The Foundation shouldn't fall off into obscurity just because you want to save a buck."
"Fredrique is not the answer. And I think you're going to be amazed by my sense of balance."
Lamont rose from the chair, frustration getting the best of him. "I hope when I get back from Virginia you'll be thinking more clearly."
"Oh, that's right. You're going to see about the Finn Collection. When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Good, there still may be a chance for you to switch your ticket."
"Switch?"
"None of us should be flying first-class when we're on company business anymore. Not unless we're paying for the upgrade ourselves."
Lamont's eyes narrowed into slits and Kat picked that moment to come in with a tray.
"Make sure you save the teabag," he muttered as he pushed past the girl. "She's going to want to reuse it for her next meeting."
Kat steadied her load. "You want his tea?”
"No, thanks." But his head on a stick might be nice, Grace thought. "And you can throw out the bag."
Kat was laughing as she shut the door.
As soon as she was alone, Grace sagged in the chair, feeling utterly depleted. She couldn't imagine staying in the office a moment longer. She needed to think.
Picking up her purse and the discarded scarf, she went out to Kat's desk.
"Do me a favor and close up. I need a break." She wrapped the scarf around her shoulders and walked over to the closet to get her cashmere coat.
Kat was frowning. "Are you okay?"
"I'm just tired. And I want to see how the contractors are making out with my guest bath. If I leave now, I might still catch one of them who was going to stay late."
"Are you still going to go to the Met tonight?"
Grace took a deep breath. "Yes."
"Okay. And don't worry. I'll handle everything here."
Grace smiled. "I know you will."
* * *
The tiny digital clock on Smith's computer read 1:07 a.m. He'd been online doing research on a potential client but he hadn't made much progress. He kept finding himself mired in the archives section of the New York Times, looking at pictures of the Countess von Sharone.
Which was a total waste of time, he thought as he called up another one.
She'd been on his mind for the past week but even more so after Lieutenant Marks had tracked him down in the afternoon. Another socialite had been killed, the second woman mentioned in that article. He was waiting for Marks to call again with an update on the crime scene, even though technically it was none of Smith's business.
Marks owed him. The lieutenant's boy had been under Smith's command in the Persian Gulf. Smith had dragged the kid out of a battle zone after he got in the way of a bullet and Marks was a man who returned favors.
The article that popped up on the screen was a little less than a month old and covered her father's funeral. On the right-hand side, there was a picture of the Countess walking with her mother and her husband across a grassy expanse checkered by headstones. He leaned in closer to the computer. She was wearing a black suit and a small hat, carrying a black bag on one arm. With her head tilted down and eyes looking forward, her face was a study of beauty in grief. Her mother, by contrast, was all stiff reserve, showing nothing. Still, it was obvious where the countess's stunning looks had come from.