PATRICIA MADE IT home through the falling snow just in time to receive Coco and Vuitton, who were being dropped off at six with the doorman by the dog groomer’s limo. Patricia was bringing both doggies to the benefit tomorrow, so they’d had shampoos, blow-dries, pedicures. And their new leashes were ready-matching his and hers from Gucci. Her doggies were just as well groomed as anybody’s, and they’d be even more so soon enough, because Patricia would be Mrs. Seward and that rich. At least she still held out hope, though she had to admit that things were not going according to plan.
The limo pulled up to the curb just as Patricia arrived, and the uniformed driver got out and demanded to see identification before turning the pooches over to her. Patricia appreciated the security. You couldn’t be too careful. Coco and Vuitton were such perfect miniature Yorkies, so very petite and delicate, who wouldn’t covet them? Satisfied, the driver released them to her care. Patricia scooped up her babies and kissed them passionately, which did little to relieve the anxiety rising in her throat.
It was not the benefit that worried her. All arrangements had been completed months earlier by a committee of mothers whose party-planning skills were beyond question. These women dominated every museum board in town, and for good reason. They had personal relationships with the best caterers, florists, auctioneers, bandleaders. The theme this year was Christmas in the Alps. Every facet of the evening had been meticulously crafted to fit, down to the authentic lederhosen on the gorgeous young waitstaff and truckloads of evergreen boughs lit with tiny electric candles that looked uncannily real.
The benefit would begin with a live auction held in Holbrooke’s auditorium, where everything from the trendiest ski togs to time-shares in Gstaad would go on the block, called by a prominent auctioneer from Sotheby’s. Then Patricia would get up and read the names of the donors in Miss Holbrooke’s Inner Circle, which was reserved for those who’d given in excess of two hundred fifty thousand dollars to the endowment campaign. Then the main event-and this one Patricia would’ve resisted if she hadn’t feared looking suspicious. Roger and Enid Van Allen would ascend to the stage at precisely seven-thirty, their bankers on standby. In a dramatic live-action PowerPoint presentation projected for the audience’s entertainment, they would transfer ten million dollars into Holbrooke’s account. Patricia would then unveil the architect’s drawing of the new Van Allen Upper School Building.
After the show was over, guests would be ferried by a squadron of horse-drawn carriages hired for the occasion to the grand ballroom of a nearby hotel for a banquet featuring beluga caviar, squab, rack of lamb, and raspberries sabayon paired with appropriate wines and champagnes, followed by dancing and the distribution of lavish Burberry gift bags containing goodies worth hundreds of dollars, provided free of charge by merchants looking to score points with the Holbrooke parent body.
Her own preparations for the big event would take Patricia most of tomorrow. A final fitting of the dress with her tailor scheduled for first thing, followed by facial, manicure, pedicure, retouching of highlights, blow-dry, and makeup at Elizabeth Arden. She should be finished by four. All the financial details had been attended to. The Van Allens’ bank had the requisite codes and account information, and Holbrooke’s bankers stood ready as well. Patricia was not at all concerned about the money’s getting wired in. No. That wasn’t the problem.
What troubled her, what had her positively beside herself, was how in hell to get the money out. The whole scheme had been months, years even, in the planning, and now a key element had gone and failed on her. Had up and, actually, disappeared. Which made her desperately afraid that there was some unknown wrench in the works. The safeguard made so much sense at the time she put it in place. She didn’t want her own fingerprints-literally speaking-on the account. Of course not, that would be foolish. She didn’t expect that the skimming would ever be discovered, but if it were, she needed deniability. She needed a scapegoat, a fall guy. So naturally she chose somebody she believed she could easily manipulate. Carmen Reyes.
Patricia poured herself a scotch and sighed deeply, walking over to look out her window, thirty-three stories above street level. The evening sky was a luminous gray with black clouds like thumbprints scudding across it. Powdery flakes blew sideways in the wind, obscuring the midtown skyline in a cottony veil. She understood there was no way around this problem. If Carmen didn’t turn up by tomorrow, Patricia would simply have to tell James the scheme was off. But not before she asked him where he’d been on Monday night when his daughter died. Because, despite what that prosecutor seemed to think, he hadn’t been with her.