“You didn’t steal anything,” he said loudly.
Several guests looked away.
Maeve placed a hand on the back of his head.
“No, sweetheart. I didn’t.”
Lydia watched them with a composed expression.
“The police will decide that,” she said.
One of the officers introduced himself as Detective Aaron Pike. He was in his early fifties, with tired eyes and a voice that remained calm even when everyone around him was shouting.
He examined the master key.
“Who had access to cards like this?”
“Senior management and security,” answered Lydia. “Temporary employees are never issued master access.”
“Then how did it end up in her cart?”
“That is what we all want to know.”
Detective Pike looked at Maeve.
“Were you near the display tonight?”
“I walked through the private gallery after someone called me there. I did not touch the case.”
“Approximately what time?”
“Nine fifteen. Maybe a few minutes earlier.”
Lydia folded her arms.
“The necklace was discovered missing at nine thirty-eight.”
“I returned backstage immediately.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
Maeve opened her mouth and then stopped.
The backstage preparation room had been empty when she returned. Most of the staff had been serving dinner or clearing tables.
Lydia noticed her hesitation.
“No witnesses,” she said.
Detective Pike raised one hand.
“I will ask the questions.”
Lydia gave him a restrained smile.
“Of course.”
The detective turned back to Maeve.
“Do you have any reason to believe someone might want to implicate you?”
Maeve looked toward Lydia.
Three weeks earlier, Maeve had repaired the protective lining inside the necklace’s transport case. While working, she had noticed that the identification number stitched into the lining did not match the number on the insurance documentation.
She had mentioned it to Lydia.
Lydia had dismissed the discrepancy as a clerical error.
The next morning, Maeve’s regular contract had been unexpectedly canceled. She had only been invited back tonight because the gala required additional staff.
At the time, she had told herself it was a coincidence.
Now she was no longer certain.
“I noticed something unusual about the necklace case,” Maeve said.
Lydia’s eyes sharpened.
“What exactly?”
“The identification numbers didn’t match.”
A murmur passed through the room.
Lydia laughed softly.
“She is a seamstress, Detective, not an insurance investigator.”
“I am a textile conservator,” Maeve replied. “Or I was, before the museum closed its restoration department. I know how valuable objects are cataloged and transported.”
“You repair dresses in a hotel.”
“Because repairing dresses pays my rent.”
The words landed harder than Maeve intended.
Lydia’s smile disappeared.
Detective Pike looked between them.
“Tell me about the identification numbers.”
Before Maeve could answer, the head of security approached.
“We have footage.”
Every conversation stopped.
Lydia turned toward him.
“From the gallery?”
“Yes.”
“Play it here.”
A large screen above the orchestra stage had displayed photographs of hospital plans throughout the evening. A technician connected the security system, and grainy black-and-white footage appeared.
The timestamp read 9:13 p.m.
Maeve entered the private gallery carrying her sewing kit.
She walked past the display case and disappeared beyond the camera’s viewing angle.
Forty seconds later, the image flickered.
The screen became black.
When the picture returned, the gallery was empty.
The timestamp read 9:21 p.m.
Lydia faced the detective.
“Eight missing minutes.”
“I left almost immediately,” Maeve said.
“The recording says otherwise.”
“The recording does not show me stealing anything.”
“It shows you entering the gallery just before the necklace vanished.”
Maeve studied the screen.
Something about the footage felt wrong.
She had entered through the eastern service door. She remembered checking the wall clock as she passed because she was worried about catching the last bus home.
The clock had shown 9:17.
But the footage placed her inside the gallery four minutes earlier.
“The timestamp is wrong,” she said.
The security chief shook his head.
“The system synchronizes automatically.”
“I entered at nine seventeen.”
“You cannot know that precisely.”
“There is a clock beside the service entrance. I looked directly at it.”
Lydia stepped closer.
“Or you are changing your story because the video exposed you.”
Oliver tightened his grip on Maeve’s arm.
“Stop talking to her like that.”
A few guests whispered.
Lydia glanced down at him.
“Children should not interfere in adult matters.”
“And adults shouldn’t lie.”
“Oliver,” Maeve said quietly.
But the room had already heard him.
Lydia’s cheeks colored.
Detective Pike asked the security chief to replay the footage.