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office, plunked herself down behind her desk, and dialed Tidwell’s number. She didn’t have the good detective on speed dial, but wondered if maybe she should.
    It took a few minutes for Theodosia to bluff her way through Tidwell’s gatekeepers, but finally she had him on the phone. Then she spent a fast three minutes bringing him up to speed on what she knew about Edgar and Charlotte Webster and Cecily Conrad. She laid her information out as smoothly as she could, hoping that this new information—well, some of it was hearsay—would spur him into action.
    But when she was finished, there was dead silence.
    â€œDetective Tidwell?” she said. “Have you heard any of this before?”
    There were a few more moments of silence, then he said, “Miss Browning, this is all hearsay and conjecture on your part, correct?”
    â€œIt’s information,” said Theodosia. “A few basic facts that I think you should be aware of.”
    Tidwell sighed. “Please tell me you’re not calling to horn in on my investigation.”
    â€œOf course I’m not.” She grimaced. She kind of was. “I’m really just being a concerned citizen, trying to share some pertinent information.”
    â€œI see,” said Tidwell.
    â€œSo did you know?” asked Theodosia. “About the . . . affair?”
    â€œYes, I did.”
    That brought her down a peg or two. “Oh.”
    â€œYou sound disappointed.”
    â€œNot really. Oh, but I did want to ask you a question.”
    â€œJust one question?”
    â€œUm . . . that’s right.”
    â€œThen fire away with your single question, dear lady, so I can get back to work tout de suite.”
    â€œDid you have your technical forensic people tear that photo booth apart?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYes what?”
    â€œYes, they ripped into it like a hungry dog gnawing a lamb shank.”
    Theodosia sighed. Dealing with Tidwell could be such a slog.
    â€œYou’re rolling your eyes,” said Tidwell. “I can hear them clicking inside your sweet little head.”
    â€œLook,” said Theodosia, starting to get a little steamed. “I’m just wondering if the techs who examined that photo booth found anything pertinent?”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œI don’t know. Digital photos, images on the hard drive, old-fashioned negatives,
anything.
Basically anything that might be incriminating. Something that would point to the killer.”
    â€œI understand where you’re going with this, Miss Browning. And it would be marvelous to push a button and have a photographic image of the killer pop out at us. Unfortunately, our clever killer chose to stab poor Mr. Webster rather than take time for a photo op.”
    â€œYou’re saying he’s clever? Or she?”
    â€œThis one is, yes,” said Tidwell. “Because an up-close, personal attack at a crowded party is always somewhat daring. But in the end, he or she will ultimately be apprehended.”
    â€œYou’re sure about that?” Theodosia looked up just as Max walked into her office. His cell phone was clenched in one hand, and his usually animated face wore a hard, unblinking stare.
    â€œI’m as certain that we’ll catch him as the sun rises each morning,” Tidwell said into Theodosia’s ear. There was a faint wheeze and then a loud
clunk
. He’d hung up.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Theodosia asked. Max looked like he’d just bitten into a sour pickle. Except they weren’t serving sour pickles for lunch.
    â€œYou’re not going to believe this,” said Max. His jaw seemed to be frozen as he moved woodenly toward her, almost gasping for air.
    â€œWhat?” She leaned forward. “Max, what’s wrong?”
    Max lurched toward the plush chair that sat across from Theodosia’s desk and eased himself down into it.
    â€œI’ve just been