I rolled down my window.

“Hi, Chief McGinnis. What are you doing here?”

“Attending the Duchess’s party, same as you. I have the night off. Now if I could just get this darn bow tie to stay put …”

“Come around to this side, Chief,” said Hannah. “I can tame it.”

“Bless you!” he said. “Last time I wore one of these neck-stranglers was at my brother’s wedding ten years ago.”

Hannah tied the bow tie in a perfect knot and straightened Chief McGinnis’s collar.

“There you go. Neat as a pin.”

“Thanks, Hannah. Save a dance for me, will you?”

“I’d be delighted.”

We joined a line of cars creeping up the Strickland estate’s long gravel drive. The road looped through a corridor of cottonwood trees, around stone-edged garden beds and terraced lawns filled with topiaries and fountains that made strange shapes in the falling dark. At the end of it all, the Strickland mansion loomed like a gigantic vanilla cake. The three-story structure was built of a white stone that glowed softly in the twilight. Its tall windows commanded a sweeping view of the grounds and arriving guests. The door and window frames were painted carmine red, and I spotted two stone dogs stationed on either side of the front door. Pillared verandas extended to the east and west of the grand entrance, where red-jacketed valets were busy parking and directing guests.

As we waited, we watched the other guests exit their vehicles in eye-popping outfits. A tall man with long, lustrous hair and a waxed mustache hurried up the steps to catch his friends, hoisting the lavender skirts of his silk kimono. A group of four women in sequined coveralls and enormous platform shoes walked in synchronized motion, leaning on one another for support. I saw a man with a full set of antlers on his head, decorated with roses and draped in shimmery fabric. George pointed out another woman with orange hair in a bizarre dress that looked like it was made of twisting black snakes. One chestnut-haired woman in a loud orange, pink, and green caftan wore enormous golden discs in her ears, so heavy that her earlobes nearly touched her shoulders.

I saw a few familiar faces mixed in among the artier guests. There was Maria the librarian in a smart three-piece suit, the director of the fine arts museum, Eric Hovnanian, and his husband, Carl, in matching plum smoking jackets, Joe Archer from the new arts complex, and even my old high school art teacher, Mr. Covarrubias, with his silver hair tied back in a neat ponytail and his paint-stained fingers scrubbed clean.

Finally it was our turn at the valet stand. After I handed my keys to the attendant, he pointed us toward another long line forming outside the mansion’s front entrance.

“Go on ahead through the security checkpoint,” he said.

Security checkpoint? The Duchess really wasn’t taking any chances. I assumed she had a state-of-the-art surveillance system guarding her treasures inside, but that hadn’t been enough to protect her Diana statue.