“Filkins?” Lassiter said.

The thin man looked shocked, as if he assumed everyone knew the name. “Clay Filkins,” he said. “He’s one of our curators-this was his exhibit. That’s how I found him. We were supposed to go over some last-minute details about tonight’s event, and when he didn’t show up I went looking for him in the gallery, assuming he was making some last-minute changes. And he was…”

The thin man looked like he was about to start crying.

“That’s all right, Mr. Ralston,” Detective O’Hara said soothingly. “We’ve got your statement, and we know how to contact you. There’s no need to come back into the gallery.”

“Except to aid in the apprehension of a murderer,” Lassiter said. “Some people might consider that a priority.”

O’Hara gave him a reproachful look. “I’m sure he does,” she said. “But there are other ways in which Mr. Ralston can help. Someone needs to talk to these people.” Her hand fluttered to indicate the socialites who thronged the steps below them.

“We’ve got officers taking their statements,” Lassiter said. “Not that I expect it will do much good. From what I’ve heard so far, the only thing any of them noticed is what other people were wearing, and since all the men are wearing the same suit, that’s a whole lot of useless. And it’s not like any of them have been inside the gallery.”

“Well, yes, of course that’s right,” the thin man said, then trailed off.

“I think Mr. Ralston means someone needs to calm these people down,” O’Hara said. “And it would probably be best if it came from the museum’s executive director.”

The thin man gave her a grateful smile. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“You know what would be even better?” Shawn said. “If I said something to them.”

“No,” Lassiter said.

“Well, not so much me,” Shawn said. “It’s the spirits who want to have a word. I’d just be the vessel.”