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that.” She made a noise that sounded like a suppressed yawn. “Forgive me. I burned the candle at both ends last night searching our storage room.”
    â€œHow much else did Ruby take?”
    Her pause indicated I’d surmised correctly. “What makes you ask that?”
    â€œRuby came to the department store where I work to sound me out about stealing clothes. That implies taking the Sophie Lang gown wasn’t a spur of the moment impulse. I also learned she’d been moving in some rarefied air lately.” I told her about Armando and Natalie.
    â€œI knew you were a resourceful young woman as soon as we met,” Edith said. “You put me in mind of myself, in fact. Several women’s costumes are missing. Ruby didn’t necessarily take them … but they’re in her size.”
    â€œDetective Morrow will be interested to hear that.”
    â€œYes. Provided he does hear it.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œI issued a full report to our security chief Mr. Groff. He was, as you might imagine, displeased. Particularly with Ruby’s brief history at Paramount being bruited in the newspapers this morning.”
    â€œI read the Register on my way to work.”
    â€œThen you likely saw Lorna Whitcomb’s dig at me. Horrible woman. She still blames me for the costumes she wore when she was under contract here for seven minutes a millennia ago.”
    â€œAre you saying Mr. Groff doesn’t intend to inform the police about the missing clothes?”
    â€œHe left me with that distinct impression. He wants to spare the studio additional negative publicity. Unless the clothes are found and conclusively tied to Ruby, I fear he won’t report them.”
    I had an inkling Edith wasn’t relaying this palace intrigue to make idle chitchat. Her hands were tied, but mine weren’t. And I knew Ruby and her habits. Edith had stealthily given me my marching orders: Look for the stolen wardrobe and get cracking on repaying that debt. Apparently I wasn’t the only resourceful person on this phone call.
    *   *   *
    WE MADE PLANS to speak later. Edith rang off to attend to the day’s fittings while I spent the better part of the next hour wrangling two dowagers intent on buying twin turbans. I had my back turned, trying to restore order to my station, when I heard the voice.
    â€œHello, Lillian,” it said, playing with each syllable like a piece of French candy.
    Gooseflesh raised, I turned and spied a man I’d hoped never to encounter again.
    Tommy Carpa wore a chocolate-brown topcoat with a velvet collar that made him look more like a young banker than a club owner of questionable repute. His nose was bent at an angle, the result of a childhood accident. That misleading hint of brutality lent his features a character they didn’t deserve. He was flanked by two ambulatory monoliths in identical pinstripe suits. At least I assumed they were ambulatory; I hadn’t seen either of them move. I tried to speak only to discover I’d gone cotton-mouthed.
    Tommy set his homburg down next to a basket of beaded hair combs on the counter. “Any guesses why I’m here?”
    â€œProbably not to jazz up that hat with a peacock feather.”
    â€œYou’ve been telling tales out of school. Blackening my name to the law.”
    â€œYour name wasn’t in such good shape to begin with.”
    His Too Much Tommy curl of dark hair spilled into his face. It made Tommy resemble an overgrown child, prone to tantrums and mulishness. He pushed the hair back, then his fingers batted the basket of combs. “I spent last night with a couple bulls fishing for leads. I’m never gonna get the stink of that police station out of this coat.”
    â€œDid you want a new one? Menswear is on three.”
    â€œI don’t shop here. Soon as they kicked me loose I came to you. Because you’re the one told