Chapter 19: The Drake

Tom's mother ate her own pie for breakfast at my table and told us the plan.

"Dessert is at nine," she said. "Daphne introduces the chair.

"Her back goes at the microphone. It's the oldest trick she has.

"While every eye is on her, I stand up and say the report is a forgery."

"And then?" Graham said.

"Then I say my son's best friend wrote it himself, and I've been confused since the funeral."

She cut me a second slice.

"She wants the room to think you're a liar and Jo is a fool.

"She told me that twice. She was very proud."

"Will you do it?" I asked.

"Honey, I'll stand up," she said. "I'll just say something different."

Graham sat with his coffee going cold.

"She'll know the moment you open your mouth," he said.

"Good. I want her to."

That evening Bea came to the studio with a garment bag and a curling iron, and called it a rescue.

"You're wearing the blue," she said. "Arthur told me. Hold still."

She pinned my hair, and fastened me into the dress, and knelt to buckle the walking boot over the cast.

"You know I'm in the room tonight," she said.

"I know."

"Table fourteen, next to your surgeon, in case he tries to be brave."

"He won't."

"You trained him fast."

The Drake's ballroom held four hundred people and a ceiling of chandeliers, and every table had a candle and a card.

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