Chapter 1 - THE GIRL CRYING IN THE ALDCOTTS’ KITCHEN
Imogen Reyes had both hands on the edge of the sink when Diane Aldcott found her.
Seventeen years old.
Black server vest.
White shirt.
Mascara running beneath both eyes.
Behind her, two hundred guests moved through the Aldcott ballroom beneath chandeliers and winter garlands while a string quartet played something expensive enough to sound effortless.
Imogen stared at the drain.
“I can’t do this.”
She had not meant to say it loudly.
Diane stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Her husband, Grant, almost walked into her from behind.
Grant held a champagne glass.
Diane held nothing.
She had spent twenty-nine years hosting parties and knew the difference between an employee taking a private minute and an employee coming apart.
“Imogen?”
The girl straightened immediately.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Aldcott.”
She grabbed a paper towel.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I just need a second.”
Grant glanced toward the ballroom.
“Diane, Senator Clarke is—”
“He knows how to eat without us.”
Grant stopped.
Imogen wiped under her eyes.
“I shouldn’t be back here.”
“You work here.”
“I mean crying.”
Diane crossed the kitchen.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That answer is usually expensive.”
Grant gave his wife a look.
Diane ignored him.
Imogen swallowed.
“My mom called.”
“Beatriz?”
“Yes.”
Diane knew Beatriz Reyes.
Everyone in lower Fairfield County who planned a fundraiser, wedding, museum dinner, or corporate reception knew Beatriz.
Reyes Catering had handled the Aldcott winter gala for eleven years.
Beatriz never missed a count.
Never sent wilted flowers.
Never pretended a chicken breast was worth eighty dollars because somebody put microgreens on top.
Diane trusted her more than companies five times the size.
“Is she hurt?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Imogen looked toward the doorway.
The party noise continued.
“She says the company might close.”
Grant’s face changed.
Diane noticed.
“What do you mean?”
Imogen immediately shook her head.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why would Reyes Catering close?”
“Mrs. Aldcott—”
“You have more events booked than almost any independent caterer in Stamford.”
Imogen laughed once.
It sounded embarrassed.
“Bookings aren’t money if people don’t pay you.”
Diane went still.
Grant looked down at his champagne.
“What people?”
Imogen closed her eyes.
This was exactly what her mother had told her not to do.
Never discuss client problems with clients.
Especially not this client.
Especially not tonight.
“The company’s just tight.”
“How tight?”
Imogen wiped her face again.
“We’re short on payroll next Friday.”
Diane stared.
“How much does Aldcott owe your mother?”
Imogen looked at Grant.
That was enough.
Diane turned toward her husband.
“Grant?”
“I don’t handle event invoices.”
“I didn’t ask who handles them.”
Grant lowered his voice.
“This is not the place.”
Imogen moved toward the door.
“I need to get back.”
Diane blocked her gently.
“No.”
“Mrs. Aldcott.”
“How much?”
Imogen’s eyes filled again.
“I think ninety-something.”
“Ninety thousand?”
She nodded.
Diane laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because three hours earlier she had stood beneath a twenty-foot Christmas tree and thanked Beatriz for “making another impossible evening look easy.”
“You haven’t been paid?”
“Mom said one invoice was thirty-one days late.”
“One?”
“Three.”
Grant said, “Diane.”
She turned.
“I approved every event invoice.”
“Approving is not releasing.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Evan oversees operating payables now.”
Their son.
Thirty-four.
Chief financial officer of Aldcott Urban Partners.
Diane looked at Imogen.
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“Imogen.”
The girl’s chin shook.
“Our kitchen lease goes up January first.”
“Your commissary?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Forty-two percent.”
Diane stared.
Reyes Catering operated from a commercial kitchen in a brick warehouse near Stamford’s South End.
Diane knew the building.
Aldcott Urban owned it.
She turned to Grant.
“You raised her rent forty-two percent?”
“Property management sets market rents.”
“Her lease renews in three weeks.”
“I do not review every lease.”
“Evan does?”
Grant stopped answering.
Diane looked back at Imogen.
“Did anyone offer your mother another arrangement?”
The girl went very still.
That was the third answer Diane received without words.
“What arrangement?”
Imogen whispered, “Mom told me not to talk about it.”
“I’m asking you, not your mother.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
Diane almost smiled.
Beatriz had raised her well.
“Fair.”
She moved aside.
“You may go back to work.”
Imogen hesitated.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Is Mom?”
“No.”
Grant said nothing.
That frightened Diane more than if he had contradicted her.
Imogen reached the doorway.
Then turned.
“Mrs. Aldcott?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t cancel us because I said something.”
The sentence landed harder than anything else.
Diane walked toward her.
“You think telling me my company owes your mother money could make me punish her?”
Imogen looked embarrassed.
“I don’t know how rich people do things.”
Grant closed his eyes.
Diane almost laughed again.
“Neither do they, half the time.”
Imogen left.
For several seconds, husband and wife stood alone.
Diane said, “Ninety thousand.”
Grant placed his glass on the counter.
“I told you. Evan handles vendor strategy.”
“Vendor strategy?”
“Reyes has had service issues.”
“No, they haven’t.”
“You don’t read operating reports.”
“I run this gala.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Grant.”
His shoulders lowered.
“It’s complicated.”
Diane hated that word.
Rich people used complicated the way children used because.
“Show me.”
“After tonight.”
“Now.”
“Diane.”
She picked up the kitchen tablet used for event coordination.
Aldcott vendor systems were accessible through her family-office account.
She searched Reyes.
Three unpaid invoices.
Total:
$94,860.
All approved.
All properly coded.
All marked:
PAYMENT HOLD — STRATEGIC REVIEW.
Diane tapped the most recent.
A note appeared.
EAC.
Her son’s initials.
Then:
DO NOT RELEASE WITHOUT CFO APPROVAL.
Diane looked at Grant.
“Why is Evan holding a ninety-five-thousand-dollar payable to a company that already performed the work?”
Grant’s face changed.
Before he could answer, the kitchen door opened.
Evan Aldcott walked in wearing a tuxedo.
He looked first at his father.
Then the screen.
Then Diane.
“Mom.”
She turned the tablet toward him.
“Explain.”
Evan smiled the way men smiled when they believed tone could make bad numbers look responsible.
“It’s leverage.”
Diane stared.
“Against what?”
“A transaction.”
“What transaction?”
Evan glanced toward the ballroom where Imogen was carrying a tray of champagne glasses.
May you like
Then he said:
“Beatriz is supposed to sell us the company.”
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