Carmela stood, already heading for the service stairs. “Because, darling, the safe wasn’t cracked. It was opened . With a key. And only three people have it: you, your wife, and the man who waxes the floor so no one hears him walk.”
“And he wears a uniform jacket. Silver buttons.”
She tipped him a wink.
The moment the penthouse elevator chimed, Carmela Clutch knew two things: the emerald necklace was gone, and the butler was lying.
She adjusted the strap of her namesake handbag—a sleek, saffiano-leather satchel that had held everything from a compact mirror to a cyanide capsule—and stepped into the foyer. The room smelled of jasmine, money, and guilt.
“Mr. Ashworth,” she said, not looking at the trembling millionaire, but at the smudge on the marble floor. “You said the safe was locked.”
