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and officials admit that they have no leads. However, police are reviewing video surveillance tapes of the area.”

    Annabelle’s funeral was held the following Tuesday at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. According to the morning newscast, a veritable Who’s Who of American industry were expected to be among the mourners.
    Four gigantic bunches of pink roses surrounded the altar which held Annabelle’s closed white casket. Every seat in the place was filled with her family and friends, leaving the Welburn employees to stand in the back.
    I was flanked by Pam and Astrid. The three of us wept softly throughout the short service. Annabelle had been a good person and she didn’t deserve to come to such a horrible end. As the tears poured down my cheeks, I wished fervently that whoever murdered her was caught by sundown and electrocuted by morning.
    There was only one eulogy, given by a distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman who spoke succinctly yet with feeling about Annabelle’s life and the sorrow that now held her family captive. As a soloist burst into what sounded like an aria, I glimpsed another Black face in the room. It was Victor. I twisted and turned to get a better look until Pam gave me a disapproving glance.
    Another musical selection followed, and then it was over.
    We all filed somberly out of Frank E. Campbell’s, and into the media frenzy. As we fought our way past the camera crews, I saw that Victor had somehow worked his way up to the front of the mob. What was he doing there? I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd to ask him, but he was gone by the time I broke free.
    A week after the funeral, Leigh Dafoe called another meeting to announce that Welburn Books was not going to be sold and our jobs were, for the most part, secure. Craig Murray was our new publisher and editor-in-chief. He would address his employees and take over his new duties as soon as the family’s affairs were in order.
    Visions of a truckload of horrible books aimed at African-American book buyers danced through my head and I left the meeting determined to land a new job before Craig took the reins.

10
    DETECTIVE MARCUS GILCHRIST
    L ate one afternoon, I was busily updating my résumé when a tall, barrel-chested white man walked into my office without knocking. He had dark, nondescript hair, piercing brown eyes, and a bushy moustache. His overcoat was gray, and even though it was a frigid February day, he was not wearing gloves.
    â€œJacqueline Blue?”
    â€œYes?”
    He held out a hand and I shook the icy appendage.
    â€œMay I sit down?”
    He closed the door and sat down before I had a chance to answer.
    â€œMiss Blue, I’m Detective Marcus Gilchrist from the NYPD. I’m meeting with all the senior staffers here regarding the murder of Annabelle Murray. Do you have a few moments?”
    â€œHold on a second.” I closed the document and turned the computer monitor away so I could give him my undivided attention. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œYou may be able to help me catch a killer.”
    He waited for some response from me and I waited for him to go on.
    â€œMiss Blue, are you aware that you are the last person to see Annabelle Welburn Murray alive?”
    â€œWhat?”
    He sighed and took a little notepad from his coat pocket. “I’m afraid it’s true, ma’am. You did visit Miss Welburn on the morning that she died, correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me about it?”
    So I did.
    â€œHmmm—who else was in the apartment?”
    â€œI don’t know. I never went past the vestibule.”
    â€œAnd you say her eyes were red-rimmed?”
    â€œYes. I’m sure she’d just finished crying.”
    â€œThen what happened?”
    â€œI got back in the elevator and went to work.”
    â€œWere you in a hurry?”
    â€œNo.”
    Wrong answer. Detective