Chapter 19: Table Fourteen

Marguerite Moncrieff's seating chart stood on an easel inside the club's ballroom door.

I was the only guest early enough to read it.

It was a handsome chart, done in calligraphy on cream board.

Ninety place cards were pinned to it in neat rows.

I had my wrist in a brace and a clipboard under my good arm.

Table one, at the head of the room, held the Moncrieffs, the board and Posy.

Table fourteen sat beside the swinging kitchen door, under a potted palm.

My card was pinned there, between a lawyer I had never met and a potted palm.

In the margin beside my name, in pencil, Marguerite had written a note.

It said: Palm. Keep from window. Do not let near Quincy.

I photographed it from three sides.

Then I took a pin out of the corner of the board, and moved two cards.

"I think that's mean," Quincy said behind me.

He had come in quietly, in black tie, with no expression at all.

"It's a minor reallocation."

"She'll notice."

"She'll notice at 7:30, in front of everyone. I scheduled it."

He looked at the chart, and at the pin in my fingers.

"Which two?" he said.

"Hers and the palm."

His mouth did something that was not quite a smile.

"Table fourteen has a draft," he said.

"I know. I checked."

By seven-thirty, the ballroom was full, ninety donors in black tie holding champagne.

Marguerite came in last, in silver, and swept her eyes over the room to see who was watching.

Everyone was.

She walked to table one and found a place card that read: Hattie Ellerby.

"There has been an error," she said.

"Yes," said the maître d', who had been tipped by my grandmother. "Your table is fourteen, madam."

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