“I don’t know,” I said, because statistics hadn’t always been on my side before. How many people could say that they’d been yachtjacked not once but twice? “And that railing wasn’t high, but it also wasn’t that low.”
“And second of all,” he said, ignoring my extremely sound point. “Even if he was murdered, your life is not ruined. It wasn’t your fault. Nobody will blame you.”
My laugh was short and sharp and tired. “Of course they’ll blame me.” The resignation was already setting in. “I’ve spent this past year working so hard to change the way people think of me. I haven’t been clubbing once. I haven’t gotten drunk. I’ve spent evenings at the theater, going to art openings, attending gala after gala. I’ve been keeping my head down, trying to repel the kinds of stories people always run about me.”
“And this doesn’t change that,” Gabe said, but I barely heard him.
“They’ll spin it as me somehow engineering it for attention. Nobody will say I committed the murder, but they’ll talk about how my grandma’s murder made me even more famous than I already was, and—”
“Ms. Afton?”
My hand fluttered to my chest. Two detectives were standing behind me, faces grave. “Yes?”
“Could we speak with you inside for a moment?”
I could feel every single eye crawling on me as I passed them.
Inside, the detectives ushered me to what seemed to be someone’s office, a cluttered space of papers and books. They stopped before the desk, not sitting. I didn’t sit either. “Who was it?” I asked, the dread heavy in my stomach.
The first detective fiddled with his glasses. “It seems that the victim was a Mr. Conrad Phlume.”
I gasped, hand flying to my mouth. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh God. Oh no.”
The detective frowned sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. Did you know him well?”
It seemed rude to say,No, I loathed him, but he was supposed to give me a house, so I just nodded and hoped the detective wouldn’t ask any more questions. Which was probably not a wish that was going to come true, considering he was a detective.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “What was your relationship with the deceased?”
I cleared my throat, which was suddenly very dry. “He was a major donor to my nonprofit, the Pomona Afton Foundation.” And then, because, well, it wasn’t like the detective was in mourning and he probably knew something about laws: “If he’d promised us a major contribution but hadn’t actually signed it over to us yet, does it still belong to us?”
“I believe that’s a question for his next of kin,” the detective said.
As far as I knew, Conrad didn’t have any kids, which made his next of kin his wife, Bibi… who’d stormed out during his toast. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach that maybe she wouldn’t exactly want to see his wishes through. “I see.” A pause. “Was he… do you know if he was…”
“Murdered?” the second detective finished. “We can’t say anything for sure, obviously. We’ll need to wait for the full autopsy results. But…” She frowned. “The victim has marks on his face and hands that indicate he may have been in a physical altercation before falling over the railing. And the force with which he hit the peacock sculpture… well. Again, we can’t be 100 percent sure at this point…”
I wasn’t stupid. I could read between the lines. Someone had beaten him up and pushed him over the railing. I let out a long, low exhale. Fantastic. Somehow I didn’t think the murder of theguest of honor at my first gala would make people excited about being the guest of honor at the next one.
“We’ll likely want to call you in for a longer chat once we’ve learned more,” said the first detective. “But, in the meantime, I understand that the victim wasn’t all that popular.” That was a delicate understatement. “Can you think of anyone tonight at the gala who might have had a reason to confront Mr. Phlume?”
A reason to beat him up and shove him over a railing to his death, they meant. I sighed. “Like you said, he wasn’t very popular. I don’t think anybody there really liked him. But I don’t know who wouldkillhim.”
“I understand. Thank you,” said the first detective. “We’ll talk to you again soon, but please be in touch if you think of anything. And I assume that you or the venue can provide a full guest list?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” said the first detective. “I have one more question for you before you go. This was found in the victim’s hand. I’m assuming it wasn’t his—do you know who it might have belonged to?”
He held up a small clear evidence bag. Inside, something winked at me. A large diamond. Attached to a thin gold chain. Which was attached to, I realized as cold spread through my chest, an earring back.
I reached automatically for my earlobes, but both of my earrings were firmly in place. I fiddled with a chain, which was slightly shorter than the chain of the earring in the evidence bag.
Which meant it had to be Vienna’s.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Opened it, closed it.
“Do you recognize it?” the detective pressed.
