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Yellow light spilled into the hallway and Carmela was finally able to get a good look at the splotched lemon bar.

“What?” asked Billy, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, obviously aching to get the hell out of there.

But Carmela’s eyes had traveled to the wide arc of powdered sugar that was spread out around the mess in the corridor.

“Oh no,” she breathed.

Carmela bent down on one knee, staring, not quite believing. And like a cartographer reading the latitude and longitude of a map, her index finger traced above a faint gridlike pattern that was imprinted in the spill of powdered sugar.

“What?” asked Billy, picking up on her radical shift in attitude. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Close,” said Carmela hoarsely. She grabbed Billy by the lapels, pulled him into Monroe ’s office. “We’ve got to check something out,” she told him.

“What?” he asked.

“Shhh,” she said as her eyes flicked around his office, taking everything in.

Monroe Payne’s office was twice the size of Natalie Chastain’s. He had a large executive desk, two leather club chairs facing it, and, over by the window, a nice- looking round wooden conference table with four chairs pulled in around it. Two of his walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases stacked with oversized art books, Chinese ceramics, pre-Columbian vases, Greek urns, and some rolled-up Japanese hand scrolls. Exactly the mishmash of objects you’d expect to find in a museum director’s office.

Carmela’s eyes fell on a closet door.

Let’s just take a quick look-see.

She pulled at the closet door, grimaced as it swung open with a loud creak.

And found… clothes. Thud.

There was a khaki raincoat, a couple light blue shirts, a gray tweed sport coat, a couple striped rep ties tossed carelessly over a wooden hanger.

Carmela stared at these items, bit her lower lip, exhaled slowly. And wondered if her snap assumption about Monroe Payne had been that off base.

Hmm. Maybe.

She dropped to her knees, pawed haphazardly around on the closet floor. And came up with… what else?… a pair of shoes. Nice brown leather wing tips that looked to be maybe a size ten or eleven. She picked one up and held it for a moment, the leather feeling cool and slick in her hand. Then, pulling in a deep breath, Carmela turned one of the wing tips over.

And saw the letters GC imbedded in the rubber.

GC! Ohmygod!

Carmela righted the shoe, peered inside. Giorgio Cortina. GC was Giorgio Cortina, the shoe’s Italian manufacturer. A men’s shoe manufacturer!

Carmela closed her eyes and a shiver of excitement coursed through her.

Bartholomew Hayward and Monroe Payne must have had business dealings together. Business dealings that went terribly wrong!

Is this enough evidence to tie Monroe Payne to Bartholomew Hayward’s murder and clear Billy? It has to be. Carmela paused, thinking hard. But what about motive?

No. She decided she had to forgo worrying about motive for now. The first order of business was for her and Billy to get the hell out of this office and find Lt. Edgar Babcock.

“What the hell’s going on?” Billy demanded suddenly. He’d been watching her closely, shifting about nervously.

“We’ve got a big problem,” Carmela told him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, wary.

Carmela stared at him. “I think Monroe Payne killed Bartholomew Hayward.”

“What!” It took Billy a few seconds to digest this. “You’re talking about that museum guy?” he asked.

“Right,” said Carmela. “Did he hang around Menagerie Antiques? Was he a friend of Barty’s?”

“Tall guy? Slicked-back hair?” asked Billy.

“Yes, yes!” said Carmela. “Monroe Payne.” She glanced about nervously. They really did have to get out of there.

“He was at the shop sometimes,” said Billy. “But I wouldn’t call them friends.” His face contorted. “Jeez, if you think… well, shouldn’t we call the cops or something?”

“Exactly my thinking,” said Carmela, noting how quickly Billy’s attitude about cops had flip-flopped. But her heart suddenly sank as she heard footsteps coming back. “Quick,” she whispered to Billy as she pawed for the switch and doused the light. “Get in the closet.” She gave Billy a rough shove, was about to dive in herself when…

Click.

Carmela’s heart beat a timpani solo as the office door swung slowly open.

Uh-oh. Bad timing. Very bad timing.

A shadowy figure leaned in.

Could Lieutenant Babcock have somehow found his way to this office? Could she be that lucky? Carmela gazed apprehensively into the darkness, but the tiny spill of light from the desk lamp wasn’t enough to illuminate the figure in the doorway.

“Hello, Carmela.” The voice rang cold as tempered steel, but held a note of arrogance as well.

Oh no!

Monroe Payne stepped slowly into the light. And any hope Carmela had of Lt. Edgar Babcock magically showing up suddenly died.

Slowly, like a bad dream playing out in slow motion, Monroe Payne raised his arm. He held a gun. An ugly little snub-nosed Beretta. Not a terrible amount of stopping power, but certainly enough to do the job at close range.

Carmela stared at Monroe, feeling stupid, useless, and sick to her stomach. She wanted to cry, to rage, to plead. This wasn’t how the scenario was supposed to play out! This was all wrong!

Monroe took a measured step closer to Carmela and his mouth twisted into an angry sneer. “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you.” He stared at the upended shoe in her hand. “You and your stupid investigating. Had to go snooping around! Get suspicious about footprints and acquisition numbers.” He waggled a finger at her. “Well, we certainly can’t have that.”

Still clutching the shoe, Carmela tried to discreetly heft her handbag. Could she smack Monroe in the face with it? Rake him with the sharp beads? Could she rush at him full tilt, then duck and spin past him?

But that would leave poor Billy still hunkered down in the closet.

“You and I are going for a little ride,” said Monroe. His voice was cold, menacing. Carmela could imagine the final destination of that little ride. Bayou with quicksand? Mississippi River backwater? Gator-infested swamp?

But now there was the faint sound of more footsteps approaching.

“Carmela?” A tentative voice echoed from down the corridor. It was Ava. “Are you down here, honey?”

“Don’t make a sound,” snarled Monroe.

Carmela stared at him, took a calculated risk. “Call the police, Ava!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the distinct sound of Ava retreating posthaste. Of her clattering down the corridor and letting out a mighty yell.

“You bitch!” screamed Monroe. Gun raised, he turned toward the door and as he did, Carmela swung her beaded bag at him. If she could rake his cheek, knock him off balance…

But pffft, like a swift-moving phantom, Monroe Payne was gone. He’d spun on his pricey Italian loafers and slipped out the door as quickly and silently as he’d entered.

Carmela hesitated for a few shocked seconds, then moved toward the door.

A second high-pitched scream ricocheted down the marble hallway.

What on earth? thought Carmela. She flung herself around the corner, pounded down the hallway in the direction of the piercing scream.

Thirty feet down, outside the lunchroom, a small knot of people milled about. From the startled looks on their faces, they seemed collectively stunned.

“What happened?” cried Carmela. “Who screamed?” Chef Ricardo pushed his way through the knot to Carmela, his arms cartwheeled frantically. “He took her! The man with the gun took her!”

Monroe Payne took Ava? No, he couldn’t have. Ava’s lean and strong from twice-weekly Tae-Bo classes. Plus she had a head start on Monroe.

As if on cue, Ava suddenly appeared. “Sweetmomma Pam!” she cried. “She followed me down here and Monroe Payne grabbed her! He was waving a gun around and he just picked her up like a rag doll and held her in front of him!”

“Like a human shield!” added Chef Ricardo.

Carmela’s heart filled with dread. “Quick! Where did they go?” she asked.

“Outside the building!” Chef Ricardo told Carmela, gesturing wildly.

“Where did who go?” asked Shamus, suddenly appearing in the fray.

Ava’s face blanched white. “Monroe Payne kidnapped my poor granny!” she shrieked.

“Good Lord,” said Shamus, stunned. He looked at Carmela. “Really?”

She gave a sick nod.

Alarmed by the shouting, another glut of people suddenly poured into the hallway. As if in a dream, Carmela saw Baby, Del, Tandy, and Quigg Brevard stream toward them. Billy Cobb hurried down the hallway from the opposite direction, still carrying the plate with the lemon bar.

“Sweetmomma Pam was kidnapped?” cried Baby, putting a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god! That dear sweet lady!”

“We gotta get her back!” shrilled Ava.

“Find Lieutenant Edgar Babcock,” Carmela told her. “Now!”