Gilt Trip by Laura Childs

wasn’t just here to answer questions; he’d been pressed into service as a sort of temporary butler. He carried a silver tray that held a teapot and matching bone china cups and saucers. Tea for three. But not for four.
    Zane poured a cup of tea for Carmela and handed it to her with a slightly trembling hand. Then he did the same for Margo and Beetsie.
    â€œEric, please tell Carmela what you remember about Sunday night,” Margo instructed.
    Zane’s spine straightened as if Margo had prodded him with a hot poker. “Sunday night?” he said, his voice cracking.
    Beetsie took a sip of tea and stared at Zane with hooded eyes. “Carmela is very clever. She’s going to help us find Jerry Earl’s killer.”
    â€œExcuse me,” said Zane. He seemed to muster a bit of courage. “Are you asking what I remember about the party? Such as which guests were in attendance?” He frowned. “Because if you recall, I gave the detective our guest list—”
    â€œIt’s not so much what you remember,” said Carmela, “but rather the chain of events. For instance, I was wondering if you knew why Jerry Earl left the party. The last time I saw him—probably the last time any of us saw him—he was sitting in an easy chair talking to Buddy Pelletier. But shortly after his body was discovered and the police arrived, you mentioned that you’d spoken to Jerry Earl not ten minutes earlier.”
    Zane blinked at her.
    â€œCan you explain that?” asked Carmela.
    â€œWell,” Margo demanded. “Answer her question.”
    Eric shook his head as if he’d drifted off for a moment. “Oh. I . . . was there a question?”
    Carmela set her teacup down with a
clink.
“It seems you were the last person to see Jerry Earl alive. So I’m just wondering about your interaction with him.” She knew Zane had related his story to Detective Gallant; now she wanted to hear it.
    â€œThere
wasn’t
an interaction,” Zane said crisply.
    â€œYou realize,” said Carmela, “we’re not accusing you of anything.”
    â€œThis isn’t a tribunal,” said Margo.
    â€œAll we’re trying to figure out,” said Carmela, “is what you were doing around the same time Jerry Earl was killed.”
    â€œIf you must know,” said Zane, “I was in and out of the kitchen and butler’s pantry looking for a bartender and waitress who’d skipped out on their posts.”
    The couple in the bathroom?
Carmela wondered.
    â€œYou also mentioned that you were tending to the linens,” said Carmela.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” said Zane. “When there’s a high-caliber event going on, you have to ride herd on everything. The catering and wait staff needs to be supervised, the bar towels have to be laundered, every detail has to be perfect.” He carefully enunciated his final words to Carmela as if he were talking to a very small child.
    â€œBut you were aware that Jerry Earl had retired to his office?” said Carmela. This time she was fishing a bit. She didn’t know if he really had.
    â€œOh yes,” said Zane. “I saw the lights on in Mr. Leland’s office and I peeked in.”
    â€œAnd what did you see?” asked Margo.
    Zane shrugged. “Just that he was on the phone.”
    â€œAny idea who he was talking to?” asked Beetsie.
    â€œI would never presume to eavesdrop,” said Zane. He squared his shoulders and stared at Margo. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I had a hand in Mr. Leland’s death.”
    Margo waved her hands wildly, spilling a big splotch of tea in her lap. “No, no, Eric. We’re not suggesting that at all!”
    â€œBecause,” said Zane, “I didn’t talk to him, I didn’t quarrel with him, and I certainly didn’t kill him!”
    Carmela noted the anger that seethed below the surface with