“So,” Detective Rowcliff asked, “did you kill her?”

My lips parted, but no words came. I’d seen poor little mousy Maisy Gaylor collapse and die at tonight’s Gala and the horror of it was with me still. “What are you saying?” I managed. “Didn’t she have a heart attack? Or a stroke—or something?”

“Probably not.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused and frightened.

“Let’s stay on track here,” he said impatiently, ignoring my question, his foot rat-a-tatting a staccato beat. “Did you kill her?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “My God, no.”

He stared at me, his eyes boring into mine. “Tell me what you saw,” he said coldly.

I was so scared, I could barely breathe. I glanced away, then back at him, hoping for some sign of empathy or understanding. There was none. “What do you want to know?” I asked.

“How did Maisy end up on stage?”

I shut my eyes, letting the picture come.

My company’s auction hall was decorated to the teeth in honor of the Portsmouth Women’s Guild’s Annual Black and Gold Gala. Even the banner stretched high over the stage was color-matched—the words Prescott’s Welcomes You were stamped in gold on a black silk background.

Dimmed chandeliers and wall sconces cast a soft glow and scores of candles flickered in tall crystal holders. Gilt-edged dishes, polished silver, and etched glasses gleamed in the amber light.

We were ready to go by six and guests started arriving about six thirty. By seven o’clock, clusters of people stood in small groupings near the antiques display. A brass quartet played classical music softly in the corner. Glasses clinked and people laughed. All around me, chitchat undulated in the background.

Most of the women wore all-black gowns, but several twinkled in black with gold sequins or metallic beads. All of the male guests wore black tie, and to keep to the black-and-gold color scheme, my male staff wore black suits with gold ties and the females, me included, wore long black skirts with gold silk jerseys.

A tuxedoed waiter passed by and I snared a flute of champagne. I scanned the room, seeking out people I hadn’t yet met and trying hard to remember the names of those I had.

Just before we were called to sit for dinner, Maisy Gaylor, the Portsmouth Women’s Guild’s representative, approached me, grinning like a girl. She was wearing a fitted black dress, snug and cut low—an uncharacteristically sexy look for the normally all-business professional woman.

“Oh, Josie,” she exclaimed, playfully grasping my arm. “We did it! All these weeks planning and working and here we are! Aren’t you just so excited?”

“Absolutely!” I agreed, smiling, her enthusiasm contagious.

“Oh, look! There’s Britt!” Maisy flitted away in Britt’s direction. Britt Epps, the honorary chair of the Gala and the most influential lawyer in town, was looking downright dapper, his bulk well disguised in a custom-made tuxedo. I watched as they air-kissed.

Later, after I’d greeted and chatted with dozens of attendees and finished a pretty good dinner, I realized that the event was on track to be a roaring success—the leaders of Portsmouth’s social scene had come to my venue and were, by all appearances, having fun, which was excellent news for me, and they seemed to be bidding well on the antiques, which was excellent news for the Guild.

As the waiters cleared dishes, refilling wine for those of us who wanted more and pouring coffee for those who didn’t, I sat idly chatting with my seatmate. Just as I picked up my dessert fork, my assistant, Gretchen, rushed across the room in my direction.

“All set!” she said, her emerald green eyes sparkling with delight, handing me the envelope containing the names of the winning bidders.

“Great!” I responded. Without opening it, I passed it on to Britt.

He stood up and leaned over to Maisy, seated at the table next to ours. “Maisy,” he said in a stage whisper, waving the envelope to catch her eye. “We’re ready to announce the winners.”

Maisy jumped right up, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Britt turned and motioned to Dora Reynolds, holding the envelope high above his head to flag her attention. Dora, the volunteer in charge of the event, nodded her understanding. She looked forty, but was probably on the shady side of fifty. She was all gussied up in a full-length black silk slip dress that glittered with gold sparkles. As she approached us, she cooed to various people, working the room like a pro.

“I bet you’ve won the tureen!” she called to someone. “I have a witchy feeling about it! You’ll see!”

Maisy squeezed Britt’s hand. “I’m just so excited!” she exclaimed, beaming. “And curious!”

“Want to venture a guess as to how much we’ll bring in tonight?” Britt teased.

Maisy giggled. “Oh, no! I just hope it’s a big number!”

When Dora arrived at the front, Britt asked, “Ready, girls?” sounding more like a stage manager at a burlesque show than an important lawyer hosting a serious charity’s most significant fundraiser.

“Can I see the bid sheets before we announce the winners?” Dora asked.

“Of course,” Britt replied and handed her the envelope.

I stood with Maisy and Britt, barely listening to their nothing sayings while Dora thumbed through the bid sheets and slipped them back into the envelope. I sat. They filed onto the stage. Britt went first, his chest puffed out with pride and pleasure, followed by Dora, ethereal as always, almost gliding. Maisy brought up the rear, lifting the hem of her low-cut gown as she stepped up onto the low platform.

Just as Britt approached the podium, before he spoke a word and without warning, Maisy choked, uttered a desperate shriek, and tumbled forward, her wineglass shattering. She landed in a heap near my chair.

* * *

Detective Rowcliff began to tap his pencil, startling me out of my reverie. I opened my eyes and turned to him. He was chewing gum as if he wanted to kill it while watching me through uncaring eyes.

“So?” he prompted, sounding annoyed.

Taking a deep breath, I recounted the events of the night, answering his question about how Maisy had ended up on the stage.

“And then people rushed up and—“ I faltered, unsure what to say next.

Rowcliff continued to tap his pencil, thinking about what I’d said. “Who wants Maisy dead?” he asked abruptly.

“No one. I mean, I didn’t know her very well, but I can’t imagine that anyone would want to murder her.”

His angry eyes challenged me. “Well then,” he demanded with a fierce rat-a-tat of his pencil, “who wants you dead?”