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I search the room. The waiter who arrived with the manager is standing next to the door to the kitchen, scraping a plate into the waste bucket.

I point toward him. “We won’t be able to test it now.”

“Tomas was simply doing his job,” the manager says.

“What’s your name?”

He straightens his shoulders. “I am Mr. Prentice.”

How formal.

“Well, Mr. Prentice, it seems that there was something potentially poisonous in Mrs. Winter’s lunch.”

“Impossible.”

“How do you explain what happened to Crystal, then?”

“We’ll check everything, of course. But as I said, madam, you should not be feeding anyone but yourself.”

“I won’t be eating another thing with a poisoner on the loose!”

“Now, Mother. Let’s not scare the guests.”

Mrs. Winter pulls her kaftan tighter across her shoulders. “You don’t care about my welfare. No one does.”

“Of course I do,” Fred says. He looks exasperated and not one bit scared.

Maybe his mother frequently thinks she’s being poisoned.

But why and by who?

And why isn’t Mrs. Winter asking that question? It would be the first thing onmymind if I thought I almost ate something that could kill me.

“Not enough to tell me about your wedding!”

“Please keep your voice down, dear. Everyone is staring.”

“Let them stare.” Mrs. Winter flings her arms out, the large rings on her fingers flashing in the chandelier light. “Are you enjoying the show?”

Fred turns red to the roots, and I exchange a glance with Emma. I can tell she’s more than glad her parents aren’t here. Unlike the Winters, they’re the furthest thing from show business, more like hippies out of their time who run a wellness store, and they wouldn’t be into all of this drama.45

“Mrs. Winter, why don’t you come sit by me and tell me all about it,” Emma says in a soothing voice, patting her on the arm like she used to do to the horses at our summer camp in the High Sierras. “I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it.”

Mrs. Winter huffs. “We need the police, that’s what we need.”

“I don’t think that’s called for, Mother, I—”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” a voice says behind me, and I stiffen.

What?

No. It can’t be.

A man in his sixties with a bald head and a linen suit steps forward. He’s holding a crushed fedora, his shoulders a bit slumped. He’s speaking in an Italian accent covered over by a British one.

He gives a deep bow. “Inspector Tucci at your service, madam.”

“What the hell ishedoing here?” Connor asks.46