Stifling a mad impulse to pick up a sunflower and play “she loves me, she loves me not,” which wouldn’t have worked too well considering that they were artificial, I forced my mind back to what we’d done in Matheson’s hotel room. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time, but now I wasn’t at all sure. First of all, if our actions ever came out, we would look guilty as hell. Plus, we’d been in such a hurry to get out of there we might have left the murderer behind. Not that I was really sorry we hadn’t encountered the armed killer, I admitted to myself gloomily.

How differently Mac would have reacted, I thought. The big man would have been in his element, playing the role of amateur sleuth to the hilt with never a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. And then at some point he would have pulled a rabbit out of his hat, leaving me feeling like a fool for not even knowing he had a hat, much less a rabbit.

Mac had known all along that Matheson was the thief. Or at least he’d said he knew the identity of the thief. With him you can never tell when he’s just blowing smoke. Even now I didn’t understand Mac’s hocus-pocus about the keys to Hearth Room C - those questions that he’d asked Decker. Not that it made any difference, of course. Still-

I pulled out my phone and called Decker’s office. He was gone for the day, so I tapped the home number next to his photo on my contacts list.

“Cody,” the lieutenant growled by way of greeting. “Don’t you ever quit working, for crap’s sake? It’s nearly seven-thirty.”

“Thank you, Big Ben. I want to know what you found out about that key to the room where the Holmes books were stolen. Was it shiny?”

“I already told McCabe that-”

“Tell me, damn it.”

“-it wasn’t.”

Okay. Now I knew the answer to the question, but I still didn’t know what it meant. “So what the...”

“A real cute idea McCabe had, it just didn’t work out. Phil Oakland - you know, the locksmith over on Spring Street - he tells me that when a key’s been copied it gets shiny on top. Based on that, it looks like neither key to Hearth Room C was copied.”

And both of them were accounted for on Friday, so they couldn’t have been used by the thief. That was an interesting fact. Maybe it was a semi-good thing that the keying system in Muckerheide was a decade or two overdue for a security update, unlike the one at the Winfield Hotel. Before I had a chance to digest Decker’s information any further, I heard Lynda’s bathroom door open.

“Thanks, Ed,” I said in a rush. I disconnected and put the phone back in my pocket.

But it was eternity before Lynda made her appearance. When she did, the sight of her almost made me forget to breathe. She was decked out in a dress with a vaguely Victorian air, creamy satin with lots of white lace, and not even her ankles peaking out at the bottom. It was as feminine a garment as I’d ever seen, accentuating Lynda’s curves - which are considerable - while revealing nothing. The contrast of the dress against her dark complexion was stunning. Lynda paused in the doorway, one hand upon the frame like a countess in a painting.

“You look great, Lyn,” I said, a catch in my voice. I used to call her that sometimes, but not for a while.

The painting came to life as she moved out of the doorway. “Sorry it took so long. It was the hair. This isn’t just once-over-lightly. It takes time.”

“You should wear it like that more often. I mean, if you want to.” See, I’m not bossy.

Lynda had swept her hair off her face, clipped it with pins, and supplemented it at the back by a chignon bun tied with a lace bow. Curly tendrils framed her face. She wore a cameo on a black ribbon around her throat, which I found quite fetching.

I stood up and moved close enough to hear her heart beat - or maybe it was mine, pounding in my ears. To my surprise she put her arms around me and hugged me, not in passion but in search of comfort. In heels, she was almost my height. The seductive scent of Cleopatra VII, Lynda’s favorite fragrance and mine, made my legs weak.

“How do you feel?” I whispered.

“Better,” she said. “Not good, but better. I could really use a stiff bourbon on the rocks, though.” One of her favorite blogs is called Bourbon Babe.

“Sorry. No time for Knob Creek. Besides, you’re driving.”

“I keep remembering-”

“Try not to,” I said.

Session Three

The President’s Dining Room

6:30

Reception

Hors d’oeuvres and cash bar

7:30

Banquet

Sherlockian sing-along

Traditional toasts

Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding

Awards for best costumes - Kate McCabe

9:00

Reader’s Theatre

“The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton” - Directed by Dr. Sebastian McCabe, BSI

Chapter Eighteen - Costume Party

We captured the last two seats open at Mac’s table in the President’s Dining Room. It was as if he had been waiting for us.

My brother-in-law was dressed in a brown and tan checked suit with short lapels, a buff-colored waistcoat, an old-fashioned stiff collar and a big tie. The only thing missing was a bowler hat, and he probably had that on his lap or someplace close. He looked up from tucking into his roast beef as we pulled out our chairs.

“Jefferson! Lynda!” he said. “What a delight to see you. I am afraid, however, that you have entirely missed the Sherlockian sing-along and the traditional toasts.”

“I’ll get over it,” I murmured.

“Sorry we’re late,” Lynda said.

Renata Chalmers leaned over to her. “The hair always takes longer than you think, doesn’t it?”

Lynda answered with a polite and meaningless affirmative, never mind that homicide had a lot more to do with her tardiness than did hair care. Renata herself was wearing her hair in fancy ringlets, the creation of which, she informed us, had caused her to miss the entire cocktail hour.

“Still,” she said, “dressing up was fun.”

The rest of Renata’s outfit, like Mac’s, was suitably Victorian - a dark blue-green dress with a short fitted jacket on top. The sleeves of the jacket were puffed at the shoulders and tapered at the wrists where they ended in a frilly, cream-colored cloth. The blouse was also cream, topped with a black bow around the neck.

Lynda complimented her on it, generating a lively discussion of Victorian fashion. But while most of the table was talking bustles and bowlers, Mac whispered in my ear, “Please report on your discussion with Mr. Post.”

“The hell I will,” I whispered back. “I’m not your errand boy.”

“Jefferson, I said ‘please.’”

“Oh, all right. There’s not much to tell, anyway. Post is an arrogant stuffed shirt, but I’m convinced he had nothing to do with the theft either before or after the fact. That interview was a wash-out, just like your cute idea about duplicating the key to the room where the books were stolen.”

Mac looked at me with infinite sadness in his brown eyes. “The key was only a hope; I never really believed it would prove to be the solution.”

A waitress hustled by with my roast beef, and the mood was broken. By the time she disappeared again Mac was engaged in the general conversation and I’d lost him. I picked at my dinner - I try not to eat too much red meat - and looked around the room getting a fix on familiar faces. Kate was at our table, of course, dressed in an enchanting black velvet dress with a high collar and silver buttons up to the top. I was only vaguely aware of two other couples next to her, people who were unfamiliar to me. Around the room I saw that Judge Crocker and Dr. Queensbury were in costume, but Al Kane and Bob Nakamora weren’t. And Woollcott Chalmers...

Dressed in tails, Chalmers was just now coming toward our table, limping badly without his cane.