“And the party’s so popular they can’t even fit all the guests inside,” Shawn said.

Gus looked up at the broad steps that led to the art museum’s neoclassical facade. They were crowded with men in tuxedoes and women in gowns and jewels. If someone had pulled the fire alarm in the middle of the Social Register, the result would look like this.

“The reception was supposed to start half an hour ago.”

“That makes sense,” Shawn said. “Half an hour ago all these people went into the museum. Then Lamont Cranston started talking, and they all fled outside until he was done.”

Gus was seized by the sensation that something was seriously wrong here. It must have been related to Kitteredge’s call for help. If only Gus had insisted on acting faster, maybe he could have prevented whatever had happened. True, Professor Kitteredge had specifically asked him to meet at this time and place, but Gus could have insisted they talk earlier. It was only a couple hours’ drive to Riverside, where Kitteredge taught art history at the university. He could have taken half a day off and gone down there. And then maybe none of this would have happened-whatever it was that had happened.

Gus started to push his way through the crowd. But the people on the steps were Santa Barbara’s donor class-the richest and most powerful of the elites. And they weren’t used to being moved out of the way. They formed a solid wall as immovable as if they had actually been made of gold.

“Excuse me,” Gus said hopelessly. “Please, I have to get inside.”

“We all have to get inside, young man,” snapped a gray-haired woman cocooned in silk and diamonds. “And if we have to wait, you can, too.” The murmur of assent that came from everyone around her assured Gus that none of them would move out of his way as long as there was the tiniest chance the old woman might still rewrite her will to include them.