“Oh, sure, she sent me one of her fancy cards to this event. But she won’t meet with me alone.” He reached across the bar for a bottle of beer and shook himself, as if shaking off a train of thought. “And why should she? Which groom are you a friend of? Do you work for the television station?”

“No, no. I know Murray Ryerson, that’s all.”

“You work for him?” He grabbed a plate of tiny sandwiches from a passing waiter and offered it to me.

I don’t like to tell people I’m a private investigator—it’s almost as bad as being a doctor at a party. Everyone has some scam or some time that they’ve been robbed or cheated that they think you’ll sort out for them on the spot. Tonight was no exception. When I admitted to my occupation, my companion said maybe I could help him. Something rather curious had been happening in his plant lately.

I stifled a sigh and dug in my evening bag for a business card. “Give me a call if you want to talk about it in a place where I can give you my full attention.”

“V. I. Warshawski?” He pronounced my name carefully. “You’re on Leavitt and North? That’s not so far from me.”

Before he could say anything else there was another stir at the entrance. This time it was Lacey herself. The waters parted: Edmund Trant extricated himself from his crowd and appeared at the door to kiss Lacey’s hands as the cameras began to whir again. Murray used his bulk to barrel his way next to Trant in time for Lacey to kiss him for the cameras. The policeman at the door greeted Lacey and directed her to Emily. I watched while she hugged Emily, signed her book, and flung herself into the arms of another Global actor on hand for the event.