“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Vivian.”

At nine o’clock, Eleanor led me through the padded leather doors of the private board lounge on the second floor.

The room smelled of old leather and stale scotch, far from the noise of the brass band downstairs.

She sat in a wingback armchair sipping sparkling water from a tall crystal glass, her pearls catching the yellow lamplight.

I took the folded receipt out of my clutch and laid it flat on the mahogany coffee table between us.

“The First County Health Clinic deposit is seven hundred dollars,” I said.