Soiree

Abby knew she did not fit into this very chic soiree. But she did have a nametag, so that should’ve been enough.

She’d gotten inside the ballroom via the one unguarded elevator—the one used by the servers next to the kitchen. The good news about these servers is they knew to be disceet. If someone was snooping around the kitchen in elegant arraignment the main reaction was to pretend she wasn’t there. Interestingly as soon as she was in the ballroom they all came up to her first, offering crabcakes or caviar toast points, not meeting her gaze but nonetheless transmitting their awareness of how she got to be there. In a way she felt like she was their hero.

As she made her way through the ballroom throngs she was surprised how many faces she knew. Actual celebrities, movie stars and singers, hobnobbing with Wall Street investors. She guessed it made sense.

Finally she found Cameron in a corner, with two women in their twenties, who were hanging on his every word. Guess he wasn’t missing Angela too much.

“Cameron Arnott, we need to speak privately,” she said.

Cameron stopped and looked her up and down then turned away without a word.

Abby reached over and grabbed his arm. “You don’t want to make a scene, do you? Then you’d better talk to me.”

Cameron flicked the women a look and they dissolved into the crowd.

“Tell me who died.” Abby said.

Cameron blinked.

“Your offshore account clients, tell me who died in the last six months.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Cameron snarled.

“Yes, you do. Or I go to the Fed and tell them what you’re doing. “

“Everything I’m doing is legal.” Cameron attempted to move past Abby but she blocked him with her body and several messy snacks on napkins.

“Yeah, it might be. But once they know that your dead client’s money got embezzled, they’ll have questions on how this happened.”

He grabbed at her name tag and pulled at her dress, his piggy eyes glowing with malice.

Abby slapped his hand away. “I’m not wearing a wire. I’m not part of any sting. I just want to find out who really stole that money, because I know it’s not you. I just want to find out who did it.”

Cameron malignant expression turned into fear, his florid face draining of color. He shook his head. “You have to help me.” He whispered. “They’re all dead.”

Abby felt her own face drain itself of blood. “What do you mean, all dead?”

Cameron looked around. “All my clients, they’re dropping like flies. Tom Grossman was first. He had a car crash. Then it was Leon Kandinsky. He overdosed. I never even knew he was hooked onto something. Last week it was.”

Someone, at the far end of the ballroom, screamed. Then a tumult of people rushed forward. Abby had push herself against the wall to avoid getting batter. Polite society indeed. She looked around.

Cameron was gone.

— Von