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I smile.

Whitcomb clears his throat. Again. “Very efficient, Mr. Vexley.”

“I try.”

Someone stifles a chuckle.

I glance at the clock. Twenty-four minutes until I can end this without appearing rude. Eighteen if I’m willing to appear slightly rude. Seven if I decide I don’t care.

“Before we adjourn,” Martin Ellery says from my left, “we should discuss tonight’s gala.”

Of course. The gala.

Tonight’s annual Vexley Foundation Benefit, an event so ostentatious it makes the Met Gala look like a church basement wedding reception.

Okay, maybe not the Met Gala. Very few people arrive dressed as animals. But the foundation does go all out. Black tie. Champagne. Live auction. Silent auction. Speeches. Press photos. An orchestra.

“What about it?” I ask.

Ellery taps a gold pen on the table. “We’re looking for an update.”

“The update is that there is nothing to update.” I lean back in my chair. “The gala is handled. The ballroom is set. Catering is confirmed. Security is hired. Press list is locked. Auction items have been staged. The donor seating plan has been revised so no one’s mistress is seated beside anyone’s wife. All good.”

A few laughs move around the table. Even Whitcomb smiles.

“Excellent,” Ellery says.

I rise. “Great. Then we can adjourn.”

“Not quite.” Ellery says. “We’ve had a cancellation.”

I scrunch my forehead. “So what? It happens.”

A throat clear from Ellery this time. “It’s a female attendee.”

“Again…so what?” I stay standing. “The foundation won’t collapse if one woman decides not to attend.”

“No,” he says. “But this particular woman was meant to accompany Mr. Stanley.”

Ah.

Mr. Stanley.

Quenton Stanley is one of the foundation’s largest private donors, an obscenely wealthy widower with watery eyes, wandering hands, and an auction habit that becomes extremely profitable once a second bourbon hits his bloodstream.

“Mr. Stanley,” Ellery continues, “has made it clear he’s reluctant to attend unaccompanied.”

“Then he can stay home.”

Whitcomb clears his throat.

Again.

I make a note in another margin. Have Iris put out cough drops at next Foundation board meeting.

“With respect,” Whitcomb says, “Mr. Stanley’s attendance has historically resulted in significant revenue during the live auction.”

Martin slides a paper toward me. Nothing I don’t already know. The old bastard bought a painting last year for six times its value after his female companion said she just had to have it.