Abigail stopped and looked around, trying to identify where the voice had come from. I stood and waved, a forced smile plastered on my face, until her eyes focused on our table. I didn’t think I imagined the way her expression changed, morphing from pleasant calm to flustered embarrassment, but by the time she reached us she seemed calm again, although slightly pinkish in the cheeks. And she clutched the Tiffany’s bag in one hand, trying to shield it with her body, as if I would snatch it from her and run off with it.

“Rachel!” she cried. “What a surprise. What brings you here?” She leaned her willowy self down and gave me an awkward one-armed hug, careful to keep her body between me and the Tiffany’s bag.

“Slut,” I heard Hilary mutter under her breath.

When in doubt, be gracious. These were words I tried to live by, usually unsuccessfully. And I wished I felt more doubt about what I’d just seen. Still, I dredged up enough graciousness to introduce Abigail around.

“It’s so nice to meet you all,” she said, her smile revealing even, pearly white teeth and a fetching dimple in her right cheek. “Peter mentioned you have your annual reunion with your college roommates this weekend. It sounds like a great tradition-I should do something like that with my friends from college.”

Hilary muttered something else, but Emma’s coughing fit covered up her words.

“It is a great tradition,” I agreed. And then, scraping the bottom of my graciousness pool, I managed in a voice that sounded genuinely nice, “It’s just too bad that Peter’s been too busy with work to join us. How’s the sales effort going?”

“Slowly,” she answered. “The negotiations have been pretty intense.”

“Not too intense to get some shopping done,” Jane pointed out, in a tone that could only be described as arch. I turned to her, surprised. Arch was a tone I’d never heard before from Jane. Perhaps pregnancy was sharpening her tongue.

The pink in Abigail’s cheeks seemed to deepen into red, but it could have been a trick of the light. She shifted the Tiffany’s bag from one hand to the other. “Um, yeah. Actually, it’s, um, a gift for the, um, the client. If we get them signed up as a customer. We got them some, um, some-”

“Pens?” supplied Emma helpfully. Only if you knew Emma as well as I did would you pick up on the sarcasm in her tone. And sarcasm from Emma was even more rare than archness from Jane.

“Yes. Pens. As a gift.”

“How considerate,” said Emma.

“Well, I’m glad I ran into you, Rachel, and it was great to meet you all, but I need to get going. I’d just stopped to get some coffee before heading back to the convention center.” Abigail indicated the Starbucks. “We have yet another meeting with the potential client, and I don’t think I can handle it without a big dose of caffeine. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since I got here.”

This time I heard what Hilary said, but Abigail was busy saying goodbye to everyone, and she didn’t seem to notice.

“Knock ’em dead,” I said as she rushed off.

Hilary turned to me. “Knock ’em dead?”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“You could try ‘Keep your hands off my boyfriend, you skank,’ for starters. Are you sure you don’t want me to go after her? I’d be delighted to tell her for you.”

“Hilary,” began Luisa, “I think we may be on the wrong track-”

The ring of my cell phone was a welcome interruption from their spatting. I checked the caller ID, relieved to see that it was neither Peter, with more lame excuses, nor Jonathan Beasley, my favorite serial killer. “Hello?”

“Ms. Benjamin. This is Detective O’Connell. I’m returning your call. You said it was urgent?”

My friends were concerned enough about my delicate mental condition to insist on coming with me to the police station for moral support. In fact, Hilary volunteered to accompany me before the phrase “moral support” had even been uttered.

Ten minutes later we’d retrieved Jane’s Volvo from the garage where she’d parked. I sat up front with Jane, trying to ignore Hilary’s monologue about the various things she would do to Peter, and to Abigail, if she were in my shoes. I knew that this was Hilary’s way of being supportive, but mostly I was just wishing I weren’t anywhere near my shoes. My phone rang again, as if it could sense when I needed a break from Hilary. This time it was the Caped Avenger.

“Rachel, darling. Whitaker Jamieson here.”

“Hello, Whit.” He liked to be called Whit. He felt it lent him a raffish air that went nicely with his cape.

“Wasn’t this morning fabulous? Such a rush. And this deal’s going to be such fabulous fun! I only wish you could have been part of our side of it, but Stan Winslow said you’d have a conflict of interest or something absurd like that. I tried to get around him, but he foisted me off on this Epson fellow. I must say, my dear, that boy’s nowhere as much fun as you are. He never wants to go anywhere fabulous for dinner. And he definitely lacks your charms.” The way the Caped Avenger said “charms” made me wish I didn’t have any, but it was probably a good thing I did. Or at least that he thought I did. Otherwise, he would never have agreed to meet me in an hour to discuss his “fabulous” deal. (“The bar at the Ritz, darling. It’s so fabulous.”)

I must have passed the Cambridge police station in Central Square on more occasions than I could count, but I’d never been inside. It turned out that I hadn’t been missing much.

Jane found a metered spot across the street from the entrance, so she parked and we all went inside together. Hilary didn’t bother to hide her disappointment when O’Connell sent a uniformed officer to bring me, and only me, up to see him. Telling my friends I shouldn’t be long, I followed the policeman up a flight of stairs and down a hallway.

O’Connell’s office defied all stereotypes. I was expecting chaos, overflowing ashtrays and coffee mugs with dregs of whisky remaining from the bottle any seasoned detective must keep stowed in a drawer. Instead, O’Connell’s desk was spotless except for a couple of neatly labeled file folders and a liter bottle of Poland Spring water that didn’t look like it was even spiked.

The man himself looked nearly as spotless as his office-he’d clearly managed a shower and a change, even if the haggard set of his features suggested that he hadn’t managed to sleep since I’d last seen him. He rose when I came in and ushered me into his visitor’s chair with a grave courtesy before resuming his seat behind his desk. He rested his elbows on its surface and templed his fingers together, balancing his chin on their tips. “What can I do for you, Ms. Benjamin?”

“I’m sorry to bother you-I know how busy you must be-but this is important. I’m actually here about two of your cases.”

“Two of my cases? Now this is a blue-ribbon day.” Sarcasm seemed to be in the air today; if it had infected Jane and Emma, I held out little hope that a hardened police detective would be immune.

“I think I know who the prostitute killer is. And I also think that I may know who’s behind the attacks on Sara Grenthaler.”

“Yes, you mentioned that in your previous message. Grant Crocker.”

“I know, but I may have been wrong about that.” I related the events of this morning’s board meeting to O’Connell. “I think Barbara Barnett might have tried to smooth the way by making sure the primary opponent to a takeover was out of commission. The witness said he wasn’t sure if he saw a man or a woman, and Barbara’s tall. And really fit for a woman her age.”

“So let me get this straight,” said O’Connell after hearing me out. “Barbara Barnett attacked Sara Grenthaler in the boathouse in order to prevent her putting up a fight for control of the company.”

“I think so. She probably knew about Sara’s rowing schedule. And she probably has one of those scarves. It seems like everyone has them.”