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glanced first at Patrice MacDonald, whose platinum blond hair had been lacquered into place with sufficient spray to withstand a hurricane. Her beaded gown dipped low in front to reveal an impressive amount of cleavage. It was a daring display for someone of her age. Not even the diamond and pearl necklace at her throat could draw attention upward.
    “Years,” the dowager said with a frosty smile. “I recall when Tessa moved to Miami.”
    There was every indication from her tone that Patrice still considered Tessa to have been an interloper, even though Molly knew for a fact that Tessa’s family had settled in Miami at least fifty years earlier. The two women had grown up within blocks of each other in Coral Gables, had attended the same private schools and the same coming-out parties. Their fathers had both served on the prestigious and very exclusive Orange Bowl Committee, which only in recent years had reluctantly begun to add women and minorities to its membership.
    “And you?” Molly asked Helen Whorton, who championed half a dozen causes, though she focused most of her attention on the needs of the area’s major teaching hospital. “I seem to recall that you were both trying to raise money for diabetes research.”
    “Alzheimer’s,” Helen corrected tersely, her arthritic hands nervously twisting the pale mauve chiffon scarf that the designer no doubt had intended as a wrap to cover saggy older arms. Her eyebrows, which had risen after several face-lifts, gave her a perpetual air of surprise. The skin under her chin was smooth, however. She probably considered it a fair exchange.
    “Wasn’t there some argument?” Molly inquired with the innocence of a newborn.
    “A minor disagreement,” Helen murmured, glancing around with a look that a suspicious mind might have interpreted as desperate. “I really must find George. I can’t imagine where he’s disappeared to.”
    “Don’t fret, dear,” Patrice told her. “I’m sure he and Clark are somewhere together, probably trying to tell the police how to do their jobs.”
    Molly wondered if George Whorton and Patrice’s escort, attorney Clark Dupree, were having any better luck at that than she usually had. Before she could become too distracted by that speculation, she took one last stab at eliciting an honest reaction from the women before one of them wised up and told her to take a hike. She turned to Caroline Viera, the youngest of the three and the wife of a major banking figure. Her acceptance in this particular set of old Miami society was silent testimony to her husband’s commanding position.
    “Were Tessa and Roger close friends with you and Hernando?”
    “Roger and Hernando are business associates,” the petite, elegant woman, who’d recently made an annual best-dressed list for the second time in a row, said coolly. “I knew Tessa only by reputation.”
    “You’ve never served on any committees with her?” Molly asked, surprised. She’d thought committee work was a way of life in this crowd.
    Caroline arched one carefully sculpted brow disdainfully. “I have little time for committees. I have a business of my own to run.”
    “Of course,” Molly said at once, surprised that she’d forgotten that Caroline Davis-Whitcomb had built an impressive list of professional credentials before marrying Hernando. A few decades ago, she would have given all that up after the wedding, using her skills when called upon on a slew of committees. Obviously, however, Davis-Whitcomb
    Inc. had continued to thrive after the marriage and Caroline was proud of the fact.
    “Public relations, isn’t it?” Molly added.
    “Advertising
and public relations.”
    “Isn’t tonight’s event one of those you handled on a
pro bono
basis?” Molly asked. It was all beginning to come back to her now. Liza actually had described the elaborate arrangements necessary to keep Caroline and Tessa apart yet focused on the same goal.
    Caroline hadn’t built a