“I am well known on the Westside, particularly below the Borderline. I have no enemies.”

“But with everything they say about the Westside . . .”

“It does not frighten me. It is my home.”

“Did you trace the odor?”

“I searched for two weeks—pro bono, mind—until my feet ached and my hands were raw from ripping away rotten wood. Finally, in the basement of a defunct hardware store on West Broadway, I found the answer.”

“Was it a dead body?” she said, eyes wide, and popped another caramel into her mouth.

“Tinier.”

“A broken sewer main?”

“The sewers of the Westside haven’t functioned for years.”

“Then what was it?”

“You’re eating it.” She grimaced. “He’s the finest confectioner in the city. Supplies all the nicest hotels, from the Plaza to the Hyperion. A tiny old Italian man who has been making sweets on the Westside since before the fence, since before I was born.”

“And the stench?”

“The unfortunate result of a new recipe, since discarded, for almond brittle.” I dropped another caramel onto my tongue. It melted like ice. It was a good story, even if nearly none of it was true.

“May I have another?”

“Take as many as you want, and tell me what troubles you.”

“It’s a very small thing.”

“Splendid.”

“Only, it isn’t, really.”

“That’s my point—they never really are.”

She nodded absently and rose, light as helium, and went to her bedroom. I took out my notebook and the squat little fountain pen I use for interviews. She returned with a single ivory glove, which she placed beside the rapidly dwindling bag of sweets. One left hand.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “Feather light. Perfect for summer. Of course, there used to be two. I was shopping at Aylesmere’s, the department store, last weekend. I’d just left, and I wanted to get my compact from my purse.”

“And then?”

“I set my packages on the ground, tugged the glove from my right hand, and set it beside me.”

“On what?”

“I don’t know, a wall or—no, it was a postbox.”

“You’re certain?”

“Does it matter?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well,” she said, not quite hiding her irritation. “It was. I checked my makeup and put the compact back. When I reached for the glove, it was gone. It’s outrageous, isn’t it? To steal a single glove. There are people in this city who are . . . who are animals.”

“And what does it have to do with your husband?”

“The gloves were a gift. For my birthday, in July. He gives me so few presents, and these were so beautiful. If he learned I’d lost it, I don’t know . . . I don’t know what he’d think.”

“Is your husband a jealous man?”

“When given cause.”

“And would he consider this cause? Would he assume you had left the glove in some other man’s bed?”