Chapter 18: Table One

I walked up the red carpet of the Ackerly Grand in a green dress with eleven drivers behind me.

The limousine driver had called them one by one.

Each of the twelve had taken the same two thousand dollars in cash, and every one of them was sick about it.

They wore their good suits and walked in single file, with the envelope held against each chest.

The photographers on the carpet lowered their cameras.

"That's the bride," somebody whispered. "That's the one from the car."

Tobias came up on my left in his navy suit with a face the color of paper.

Greta took my right arm in a red dress that clashed with her hair on purpose.

Across the street, in the doorway of a closed florist's, a man in a gray coat stood very still.

He had a manila envelope under his arm.

I did not look at him.

Two uniformed officers stood beside the revolving door, watching every face.

Then the doorman saw the invitation in my hand and stepped aside.

"Table one, Miss Fairbanks," he said. "Mr. Ackerly asked that you be seated personally."

The ballroom held six hundred guests under a ceiling of crystal.

A string quartet played at the far end.

A screen above the stage showed four decades of the Ackerly name in gold.

Along the back wall, in a long quiet line, the drivers took their places.

Table one sat at the foot of the stage.

Mr. Ackerly rose from his chair with his cane.

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