Greer and Percy trail me as I step away from the main hubbub toward a quieter corner of the lawn. I duck behind a trellis dripping with lavender wisteria, where the air is thick with its sweet, heady perfume and open the email Mom sent.
One tap, and the Daughters’ shared drive opens. Folders labeledEVENTS,MEMBERSHIP,NEWSLETTERS,ARCHIVES.
And then I strike gold.FINANCIALS.
My heart starts thudding.
Percy leans over my shoulder like an extremely nosy feather boa. “Oh, this is intimate. I feel like we should light a candle.”
I tapFINANCIALS. A list of spreadsheets pops up, each neatly named.
CHARITY_FUND_2023,CHARITY_FUND_2024,CHARITY_FUND_2025,OPERATING_EXPENSES LEDGER_MASTER.
I open the most recent charity fund file—2025.
Rows of numbers fill the screen. Donations. Interest. Withdrawals. Notes.
My eyes catch on the header.
Accountant of Record: Bernard Thornbury, CPA.
“I knew he did their books,” I murmur. “I didn’t know he was still listed as the accountant.”
Still listed. Even though he’s been dead for over a year.
Everett mentioned once that Bernard handled accounting for half the organizations in town. I’d filed it under boring and moved on.
But here, in black and white, is his name. On files dated from this year.
Every quarter’s summary. Every transfer. Every adjustment. All signed off with the same initials.
BT.
I scroll down, my pulse picking up speed.
There, buried among normal expenses—donation transfers, event budgets, operating costs—are withdrawals that make my stomach drop.
Regular amounts. Clean thousand-dollar chunks. Starting about eight months ago, well after Bernard died.
Each labeled with a vague note.
CONSULTING.
TRAVEL—OUTREACH.
ADDITIONAL REVIEW.
Which means someone else has been using hislogin credentials to take money out of the Daughters’ accounts. Someone who had access to his passwords, his accounts, his identity.
Someone who could make it look like a dead man was still doing the bookkeeping.
Someone with access to the records. Someone who knew Bernard’s password, or watched him work, or had his login information saved somewhere. Someone with a burning need to take Vivienne down before Vivienne took her down.
My gaze lifts over the top of my phone to the crowd.
To Midge, stiff and smiling, fussing with the dessert table as if her life depends on keeping the banana pudding perfectly aligned.
To Gigi, serene and polished, laughing at some joke a board member just delivered.
