Chapter 24: Item Thirteen

I held the flute of champagne and looked at Marguerite Moncrieff.

The microphone was still live.

Two hundred people stood very still along the rails.

"That girl will never sit at my table," Marguerite said again, to make sure.

Behind her, the photographer had the camera at his eye and his thumb on the button.

He was shaking.

I turned my head and looked at him.

He had been told to wait a month for this, and he had waited it out in good faith.

"Is that a cue?" I said to Marguerite.

"It is whatever you like."

"Good."

I took one step forward.

A month ago, in a ballroom, I had been written to do this to someone else.

I threw the champagne in Marguerite Moncrieff's face.

It hit her left cheek, her ash-blonde bob and her pearls, in about that order.

The photographer's camera went off again and again.

Marguerite stood very still, with the champagne running down her nose, and her mouth slowly opening.

Somebody at the back began to clap.

It was Hattie, from her folding chair, hitting her palm against her cane.

Quincy said, quite clearly, from behind me, "Thank you."

I took an orange sticker out of my clutch and wrote on the back of it.

Item thirteen: one flute of champagne, thrown. 10:51 p.m. Received with thanks.

I stuck it to Marguerite's lapel.

"That's your receipt," I said. "Keep it, in case anyone asks."

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