There were murmurs of agreement. Maggie vowed not to make any more attempts to correct the rapidly growing legend of the Guilfoyle Method. There was no point. People were going to believe what they wanted to believe.
“Champagne, Miss Lodge?”
Maggie turned to see the dream guide named Gloria standing right behind her. There was a single glass of champagne and a small slip of folded notepaper on the tray she held out.
“Thank you,” Maggie said. “But I haven’t had a chance to finish my first drink.”
She hadn’t touched it, in fact.
“Yours will be warm now,” Gloria said. There was an urgency inher tone and a pleading expression in her eyes. The tray trembled a little. “Why don’t you take the fresh, chilled glass. Please.”
The message was clear. Gloria was frightened and desperate.
“That is an excellent idea,” Maggie said. She put the untouched glass on the tray and picked up the fresh champagne with one gloved hand. She managed to palm the folded note at the same time.
Gloria was visibly relieved.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She turned and hurried off into the crowd.
Maggie drifted away from the portly man and the others and found a quiet alcove. She set her glass down on a small table and unfolded the note.
Larry is innocent. I can prove it. Please help me. The ladies’ lounge. Ten minutes.
Smart choice of a rendezvous location, Maggie thought. Gloria must have guessed she would hesitate to meet a woman she barely knew in the night-shrouded gardens or in one of the Institute’s empty seminar rooms. But the ladies’ lounge was safe. There would be women walking in and out at unpredictable times. Given the size of the crowd tonight and the amount of liquor flowing, the restroom was bound to be doing a steady business.
The location had one other singular asset—no man, including Arthur Guilfoyle, would dream of stepping foot inside.
She glanced at the tall, old-fashioned clock standing near the alcove and decided to start making her way toward the hall that led to the women’s room. It was going to take a few minutes to move through the crowd at a discreet pace that would not draw attention.
When she reached the entrance to the corridor she paused to check on the whereabouts of the Guilfoyles. They were both chatting with enthusiastic guests.
Satisfied, she moved into the hallway and went briskly toward the ladies’ lounge. When she was a few steps away from the door, a fortyish woman in a mauve evening gown emerged. She was in a hurry. When she saw Maggie, she paused.
“I’d advise you not to go in there,” she said in confidential tones. “A woman is in one of the stalls. She is quite ill. Food poisoning, apparently. She told me there was a smaller facility available in the north wing.”
“I see,” Maggie said.
Gloria had apparently found a way to ensure some privacy for their conversation.
She waited until the helpful woman in mauve had disappeared back into the lobby and then pushed open the door of the women’s room. She walked into a luxuriously appointed lounge. A row of dressing table stools covered in pink satin sat in front of a long lacquer table and a bank of mirrors. Beyond was the entrance to a tiled room and a row of stalls.
The lounge was empty. That was no doubt due to the sounds of violent retching that emanated from behind the door of the one occupied stall.
“Gloria?”
The retching stopped immediately. The stall opened and Gloria rushed out. Her face was flushed from the effort of pretending to be ill. She had a sign in one hand—Closed for Cleaning.
“Thank you so much for coming, Miss Lodge,” she said. “Just a minute.”
She shot past Maggie, opened the door of the women’s room long enough to hang the sign outside, and then ducked back into the lounge and locked the door.
She slumped against the door for a few seconds, catching her breath.
“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she whispered. “You’ve got to help me save Larry. He didn’t kill Dr. Oxlade, I swear it.”
“You’re sure of that?”
