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I’m sitting on the edge of the stage in the tearoom as my vision starts to clear. I didn’t faint, not this time. Beside me is Juan, a protective arm around my shoulders, and on my other side is Angela.

“It’s going to be okay, Molly,” she says.

“Just breathe,” says Juan.

I was sitting on my guest throne onstage when the auction ended and Juan yelled out, “El huevo!” I looked to the display case where the Fabergé had been, having just sold for ten million dollars, but it was gone.

Pandemonium took hold, and the crowd rushed forward. Mr.Snow raced out of the room, and Steve ordered everyone to “sit down!” Cameras and lighting equipment were tipped over, auction paddles flung to the floor. Brown and Beagle stood at center stage, staring wide-eyed at the empty display case. I took a few unsteady steps, then felt faint and sat on the edge of the stage. It’s where I now find myself as bidders and buyers, collectors and crew members rush in and out of the room, everyone shouting contradictory orders.

At long last, Mr.Snow appears at the tearoom entrance, someone following close behind him—a uniformed woman flanked by two male officers. The familiar, imposing woman marches in and calls out, “I’m Detective Stark. No one else leaves this room until I say so! Got it?”

Her two officers block the doorway as the remaining onlookers head to wherever they were before the egg disappeared.

Detective Stark’s steely eyes take in the film equipment and paddles on the floor, the Bees by the podium, the empty display case at center stage, and me, sitting on the edge, with Juan and Angela at my sides. I haven’t seen the detective since the investigation into J.D. Grimthorpe’s sudden death at the hotel. As always, Stark’s presence elicits visceral butterflies.

The detective strides over. “Molly,” she says. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“I would say it’s nice to see you,” I reply, “but lying to an officer is a criminal offense.”

Stark’s lips curl into what I believe is an amused smirk. “Angela,” she says with a tip of her cap. “Always good to see you. Still hoping to join the force one day?”

“Um, yeah,” she says. “I’m saving for college. I hope to join the academy someday.” She glances at Mr.Snow, who does not seem surprised by the revelation.

“And you, Molly? Any chance I’ll see you on the force one day?”

“Unlikely,” I say. “In fact, I’d rather avoid criminal activity than seek it out.”

“And yet somehow, it seems to follow you.”

“Unfortunately,” I reply.

“You were here when the egg disappeared?” Stark asks Angela andme.

“We were,” Angela answers.

“And you’re Molly’s fiancé,” Detective Stark says to Juan.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear! I’m just a chef, and Molly’s just a maid,” Juan pleads.

“Calm down,” Stark replies. “No one’s accusing you of anything.”

“Juan and I get nervous around police,” I say by way of explanation.

“I understand,” Detective Stark replies. “But you’re the victims of this crime, no? What was stolen was yours?”

“That’s right,” says a voice behind me. Beagle moves to the front of the stage with Brown beside him. “My husband was conducting the auction,” Beagle explains. “He’d just brought down the gavel to close the bidding. When the lights went up on the display case, the Fabergé was gone.”

“We were both shocked,” says Brown as he stares down at his husband, his blue eyes wide.

Stark squints at the two dapper men before her. “Did I ask for a play-by-play?”

“I should have introduced myself,” says Beagle. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she replies. “I’ve seen your show.”

“Always good to meet a fan,” says Brown.

“Who says I’m a fan?” Detective Stark responds. “Now, Molly, did anyone unexpectedly come onstage during the shoot?”

“No one,” I say.

“We were all watching,” Mr.Snow adds.

“That’s right,” says Steve as he introduces himself to Stark. “I can’t believe the Fabergé was stolen right in front of our eyes. How can that be?”

“You tell me,” says Stark as she eyes Steve suspiciously. “You’re the showrunner, so you’ve got footage, right?”

“I do,” says Steve with a tip of his ball cap. “I can make you a copy.”

“Not a copy. The original. I’ll be leaving with it today.”

“If you insist,” says Steve.

Detective Stark addresses the others in the room. “Is there anyone here who can shed light on what the hell just happened?” she asks.

The bidders and buyers, crew members and hotel staff look at her wordlessly, shaking their heads.

“A room full of bystanders and nobody saw a thing?”

She walks up the stage stairs, pacing around the display case twice, peering through the glass at the emptiness within. The bottom of the case, where the egg was sitting, is slightly displaced, but other than that, there are no signs of tampering.

She searches her pockets, puts on a pair of latex gloves, and nudges the case. As she shifts it, what’s underneath comes into view—a round, brass outlet on the stage floor.

“Holy moly! And I mean that literally,” Angela says as she takes in the familiar hole in the stage floor.

“The vacuum port,” I say. “The display case was centered on top ofit.”

“Is that what this hole is?” Stark asks. “A central vacuum outlet?”

“We had it installed during our first-floor renovation a few years ago,” Mr.Snow explains.

“The Silent Sucker 2000,” I explain. “It makes cleaning a dream.”

“Where does the vent lead?” Stark asks.

“To the greenroom,” I reply. “There’s another port in there.”

“Show me,” says Stark.

I lead her through the hidden paneled door to the greenroom, pointing to the outlet on the adjacent stage wall. Angela and Mr.Snow soon file in behind us, leaving Juan by the stage.

“I vacuumed in here just last night, and I vacuumed the stage, too,” says Angela.

“Wait, aren’t you a bartender?” Stark says.

“I was put in charge of events when Molly became a superstar. The job sucks, and if I’m not mistaken, so does what happened here,” she says, pointing to the vacuum outlet.

“I’m not following,” Mr.Snow says as he adjusts his glasses on his nose.

“Someone—not me—left that vacuum port onstage open on purpose,” Angela explains.

“Bingo,” Stark says as she looks at the hole more closely.

“When the lights went down and the auction started, they attached the hose in the greenroom to suction the egg out of the display case,” Angela explains.

“So where’s the collection canister?” Stark asks. “The dirt’s gotta go somewhere, right?”

“The utility closet,” I reply.

Angela’s eyes light up. “Maybe the egg’s in there!”

Angela, Mr.Snow, and I lead Detective Stark to the utility closet in the corridor outside the tearoom.

I open the door and point to the round canister in which all the grime vacuumed from the main floor collects. “The belly of the beast,” I say, for that is how Angela and I refer to the container I emptied daily until she took over my job.

The detective pulls the hinged door with her gloved hands, but when the chamber opens, there’s no Fabergé in sight. More disturbing is what is inside. Placed squarely on top of a pile of dust bunnies, miscellaneous crumbs, and a comingling of guests’ hairs sits a small white card on which the following message is neatly typed:

Dear Molly,

Find the egg and you die.