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halfexpected she would; she had smelled strongly of fabric softener and the laundry room was in the servants’ wing on the other side of the staircase.
    “Lizzie, is there another way upstairs?” I asked.
    She looked at me with a hint of puzzlement. “Why? You are already halfway up.”
    “Not for me, I mean . . . I’m just curious.”
    “Only on ze outside,” she said. “Stairs to the terrace outside ze madam’s bedroom.”
    “Ah. Very Shakespearean,” I offered.
    Lizzie clearly didn’t care what it was and continued on her way. I walked back down a few steps. The corridor beside the staircase ended in a pair of ornate wooden patio doors that opened onto the pool area. The passageway was dark, with just a single light in the center. Someone could have slipped away from the party without making an ostentatious exit. That might have been how Hoppy went upstairs.
    I continued on my way. This was all terra incognita now. Before I went to the library, which was to the right, I went to my left. To the area above the workmen. The section of collapsed flooring was in a cozy media room with a large HD TV, audio equipment, and a satellite console. A toolbox sat discreetly in the corner. The cable upgrade made sense. The big hole in the center of the floor still did not. If beams were weak anywhere, it would be under the enormous cabinet that held all the equipment.
    “Lizzie, is that you?”
    I dashed back into the hallway to the steps, and headed to the library. “No, Lolo. It’s me, Gwen Katz.”
    “Oh. I thought I heard someone coming up the stairs.”
    The steps were marble and pretty quiet. She must have heard the voices.
    I entered the library, which, like the media room, was what you’d expect from a second-floor room: small and comfortable. There were two windows on the longer far wall, both of them shuttered. This was the room where she kept all her mystery novels, of which there had to be about four thousand. She was sitting in a love seat, wearing her robe, slippers, and a pallor. Her entire appearance suggested someone who had the flu but refused to let it beat her. There was a standing lamp by her head, throwing a cone of white light that was a few watts shy of the third degree.
    Lolo folded the book closed after carefully laying in a fabric bookmark. She set it on a table that was part of the lamp.
    “So nice of you to visit,” Lolo said. Her voice was nasal.
    She even sounded sick. She’d probably been crying—but about what had happened to Hoppy? Or that this had happened to her on the night of her big party?
    “I was worried about you,” I said. “How are you?”
    “Just heartsick,” she said. “Such a terrible thing. . . .”
    “Yes. But you’ll get through it.”
    “One must.”
    “Have the police been treating you well?” I asked.
    “Oh, very. They stayed quite late, asking questions—well, you saw.”
    “Yes. Tell me, did they come up here?”
    “They went everywhere !” Lolo said. “They had questions about the floors, the rug—”
    “Rug?”
    “The bearskin rug in the media room,” she said. “Not very fashionable, but Mr. Baker loved it.”
    “What about it?”
    “It fell partway through the hole when Hoppy . . . when he. . . .”
    “Of course. Why would they be interested in that?”
    “The location,” Lolo said. She had begun sniffling when she talked about the rug. I handed her a paper napkin, which was all I had in my coat. She didn’t seem to notice as she dabbed her nose. “I explained that I usually have it near the sofa to keep my feet warm, but it was on the other side of the room last night.”
    “Why?”
    “To cover the hideous hole the electrician made,” Lolo said.
    “I don’t understand why they made such a big hole, though,” I pressed.
    “The electrician lifted the hardwood strips in sections in order not to damage them. That was my idea—he’s just a boy. New at this, but recommended. They are over a century old, you see, those floor