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discreetly withdrawn under just these circumstances, to open up a table space. I ran my eye over the list and turned back to Marty. “Ah, here we are—table twelve, at that end.” I waved vaguely in the right direction, then accompanied Marty toward the door, where she paused to wait for her companion. Dropping my voice, I said, “About that matter we discussed earlier, I’ve asked Alfred Findley to look into it.”
    Marty fixed me with an odd look, but I didn’t have time to think about it as Jimmy came up beside us, his hands clamped around a pair of glasses, one of which he handed to Marty. “That’s all well and good, but I still expect to see you and Rich in the morning,” Marty said firmly. “Come on, Jimmy, we’re over there somewhere.” She grabbed his free arm, but he turned briefly to say, “Nice to meet you,” before he was hauled away.
    I’d done all I could for the moment, and I had more immediate issues to attend to. While I and my elves had arranged for a truly delightful dinner menu, complemented by some outstanding wines, I didn’t expect to have the opportunity to enjoy it, since it was my job to make sure that everyone was where they were supposed to be, that the caterer was on his toes, that the glasses stayed filled, that the microphone at the head table worked, and that nobody dribbled wine (or worse, threw up) on any of the valuable collections that lined the perimeter of the room. I allowed myself a few brief seconds to admire the handsome room, filled with happy, noisy revelers. I wondered if the room had ever experienced such a noise level in its staid existence. I patted myself on the back, figuratively: Job well done, Nell—and it’ll all be over in another couple of hours. This warm glow of self-satisfaction lasted no more than half a minute: I was interrupted from my reverie by one of the caterer’s assistants, who was yammering on about a tripped circuit breaker in the kitchen, and I followed her to the back of the building to quench yet another crisis. The work of a professional fundraiser is never done.

CHAPTER 4
    The last guests trickled out the door after eleven, helped into their waiting cars or taxis by the security manager. It was nearly midnight when the caterer loaded the final crates of dirty dishes into his truck, and I handed him his hefty check and thanked him profusely, even as I noticed that his assistants were still folding chairs and rolling tables toward the loading dock. He’d done a good job, and we might want to use him again. The edible leftovers were stowed in the staff refrigerator for tomorrow’s lunch. The maintenance manager and a couple of helpers were busy moving the library tables back into position for the readers who would be arriving in ten hours. I thanked him for his help and headed out myself.
    The cool and bracing October night air cleared my head. It was only a few minutes to Charles’s house off Rittenhouse Square, and by day I would have walked, but it was late and I was wearing heels . . . so I treated myself to a taxi. It pulled up in front of the brick-fronted townhouse, and I dragged myself out. I lingered briefly on the pavement, looking up at the building’s façade, before ringing the bell. Even in the dark, Charles’s place was exquisite: early nineteenth-century glass in the multipaned windows, original door frames and window sashes, all meticulously maintained, gleaming with fresh paint. The street was quiet, lined with similar elegantly appointed houses. It more than suited Charles, who had outstanding taste in all areas, as far as I could determine. Including women, I reminded myself. Charles had been married once upon a time, and he and his wife had produced a brace of smart, quiet children, now in their teens, who lived in another state but visited at wide intervals to dutifully troop around the significant sights of the city. Their mother had agreed to an extremely amicable divorce, and having family money, had made