CHAPTER ONE

I was hiding in the third floor ladies room when my cell phone began to jangle. Struggling with the oh-so-cute clasp of the Kate Spade evening bag, I cursed the weakness for fashion that made me choose an accessory that was almost as useless as it was expensive.

“Yes?” I snapped when at last I pried open the handbag. I had been congratulating myself for getting my boss an appointment with a gold-plated venture capitalist after listening to him tell me more than I wanted to know about his collection of Oceanic art. If it led to a donation for the Devor Museum of Arts and Antiquities, I might get a nice raise. Right now, all I wanted was a few minutes to repair my lipstick and recharge my batteries.

My business is convincing wealthy people to give away large sums of money or precious objects, and it can be hard work. It’s an honorable profession, for the most part, although some folks see us more as thieves, car salesmen, or carrion crows. When I was married to Money, and I certainly was for a short time, my mother-in-law made it clear that’s how she saw me.

I learned a lot about money during my four years as Mrs. Richard Argetter III, consort of one of San Francisco’s wealthiest young social lions. For one thing, all those clichés about money not making you happy? I now know they’re mostly true. I’m awed on a regular basis, though, by wealthy people with good hearts and generous instincts who do great deeds.

“Better get down here, Dani,” a voice barked in my ear. “All hell’s breaking loose.”

“Len?” Len Hightower’s our security chief, much given to drama. “What are you talking about?”

But I could already hear a change in the tone of conversation outside the restroom door. As gregarious as an open bar and the presence of their peers rendered San Francisco’s social butterflies at a party like this, the anxious quality of this particular hum set it apart.

“Get down here. Peter needs you.”

“I’m on my way.” Peter Lindsey is my boss. He’s also the director of the Devor Museum. I may be a senior executive, too, but when he says jump, I do.

Snapping the phone shut, I quick-checked my reflection. The new green eye shadow did nice things for my hazel eyes but the flame lipstick had to go. On my large mouth, it looked like clown makeup. I swiped it off and settled for lip gloss.

Nudging the door open with my shoulder, I reached for the pager. The display showed Peter’s cell phone number. I speed-dialed while easing my way past guests, a few of whom were looking over the railings of the central staircase that ran up the spine of the handsome old Edwardian building to the glassed roof atrium.

Something was wrong, but I couldn’t see what it was when I peered over the heads of the shifting, murmuring crowd. Was there a fire? I sniffed, but didn’t smell smoke.

Squeezing past the outstretched arms of the two Museum guards standing at the third floor landing after getting a nod of recognition from one of them, I hurried down the carpeted stairs. It looked as though the guards’ orders were to keep people from coming down, which surely meant it wasn’t a fire. But what the hell was it?

The bar had been set up in the large first floor lobby for tonight’s preview of Matthew Barney’s multimedia installation, so, naturally, that’s where the biggest crowd was. I paused at the second floor landing and looked toward the two-story, glass entrance doors installed a few years ago over the howls of architectural purists. Strangely, because our liquor license from the city forbids Devor Museum guests from loitering outside the entrance, there seemed to be as big a crowd on the sidewalk as inside the building.

An elevator opened into the lobby as I peered down, disgorging a score of black-clad, dot com types and a security guard, a temp brought in for the evening by the look of him. They merely added to the crush. I made it down to the first floor, maneuvering past a flock of twenty- somethings in Prada and Jimmy Choos who were chattering about guys with cute butts, while craning their pretty necks and sniffing the tension in the room.

Even though I’m tall, I couldn’t spot Peter over the heads of the crowd. Len is short, a matter of some sensitivity to him. I worried he’d need one of those bicyclers’ flags to stand out right now.

“What happened?” I asked a portly man blocking my path to the information desk, where I guessed staff might be gathering.

“Someone said a body just landed outside,” he replied without taking his eyes off the glass doors.