They were running alongside a particularly wide bay into which the sun had nearly sunk when Hud slowed and flipped his turn signal on. They turned away from the water, past a self-consciously quaint little brown church and across a railroad line. The other side of the road was lined with a golf course. And there, awash in white lights, was the Lafayette Club.

It was not at all the modest place Betsy had expected, but a 1920s stucco palace, with an arched arcade, faux-Moorish windows, and a forest-green canvas marquee at the entrance. And a valet in a dinner jacket waiting to park their car.

The lobby was huge, with a red tiled floor and a big old antique bronze fountain. A large, live band was playing somewhere, and the three couples ahead of them checking their coats were in tuxes and long dresses.

“Oops,” said Betsy, and turned to Hud. “Why didn’t you say black tie?” Her glance took in Jill, who widened her eyes innocently.

“What?” said Hud. “I told you, you look wonderful.”

Fortunately, when they got to the ballroom there were a number of other women who either hadn’t read Miss Manners on “Proper Attire for Black-Tie Events” or didn’t care. Hud took her around, introducing her to people. Some of them she already knew, such as the chief of police, whom she’d met only yesterday. His wife was an ardent counted cross-stitcher.

The band was good. It played a mix of big-band, soft rock, and standards, mixed with waltzes and, once, a polka. She danced first with Hud, who made her think she was a better dancer than she remembered, then with Mayor Jamison and attorney Penberthy, who taught her that Hud was the kind of dancer who made his partners look good.

It was a slow dance with Penberthy, and as they box-stepped around the floor, she asked, “Were you a friend of Margot’s, as well as her attorney?”

“I’d like to think so,” he replied, a little dreamily. He hummed a snatch of the melody.

“Did she talk to you about anything the last time you saw her?”

“Hmmm? No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? You saw her the last day of her life. Surely you remember what people said to you when they turn up dead right after.”

He loosened his hold to lean back and look into her face. “What’s this all about?”

“The police are here, they’re going to make an arrest,” she said.

“Arrest who?” he asked, alarmed.

“I’m not supposed to say, but it’s the person who murdered Margot.”

Penberthy tried to look around and dance at the same time and stepped on both of Betsy’s feet. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. He regained his rhythm. “Is that Joe Mickels over there?” The landlord was holding a highball in one hand and gesturing sharply with the other to a trio of men.