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speaker, has been called away on a family emergency and can’t be with us today as she had planned. I’m sure most of you are familiar with Lizabeth’s independent publishing company, Sherlock Press, and know that not one but two of Sherlock’s authors, Jessica Price and Maybelle Farnsworth, are in the running for the best mystery of the year award to be presented at tomorrow evening’s dinner. I know Lizabeth must be heartsick to miss it, but we can all appreciate that family comes first. I’m sure we’ll all hold a good thought. I do hope you won’t let this little setback spoil your enjoyment of an excellent lunch and each other’s company.”
    Her face lit up as an idea occurred to her. “I suggest that we all take this opportunity to do a little networking, which is what these conferences are all about, right? To that end, what say we take a little break before dessert and change our seats, get to know someone new! I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
    She smiled broadly at the assembled membership, well satisfied with her brainstorm, and ignored the general grumbling that swept across the tables before returning to her seat.
    “Ohhh, no you don’t,” May muttered. “Sorry, Kate, no dessert for you. When it’s time to change seats, I plan to change mine right out the door. I’m in no mood for party games. Poor Lizzie, no wonder she was in such a bad mood last night. I wonder what’s going on, but I guess it’s really none of our business.”
    I brushed aside her apology. “I don’t know anyone here but you anyway, and I’m pretty sure no one is going to want to network with a Wethersfield, Connecticut, realtor,” I assured her. “When the time comes, shall we head for the fire stairs or take advantage of the general confusion and make a run for the escalator?”
    “Escalator, I think. With my luck today, opening that fire door would probably set off an alarm. Not an appealing prospect.”
    With our escape plan in place, we concentrated on shoveling chicken salad into our mouths and washing it down with surprisingly good coffee. We crumpled our napkins on the table and located our handbags under the table, alert for the signal that it was getaway time. In a few minutes the president returned to the microphone to announce, “Time to change seats, everyone. Come on now, don’t grumble,” she chided as her announcement produced a wave of groans and muttering from diners who clearly would prefer to remain where they were. “Up you get! Time to broaden your horizons by getting some fresh perspectives.” She actually clapped her hands for emphasis as if she were a schoolteacher addressing a particularly recalcitrant class of fourth graders.
    Slowly, chairs were pushed back and belongings retrieved before the first reluctant table changers made their move, and the rest soon followed. I noted with amusement that the two ladies who had been seated next to us simply moved together to another table.
    “She should have had every other person change tables, not everyone,” May commented as we observed the same tactic being repeated around the room.
    We made a beeline for the main entrance to the ballroom, where the wait staff stood looking confused by the uproar before them, dessert trays held aloft. “I thought there was supposed to be a speech or something,” said a young woman with spiky hair and a nose ring as we pushed open the door.
    “Just a little change of plans,” May told her, “but not to worry. They’ll settle back down in a minute.” She squeezed through the door. I did my best to look sympathetic and followed suit.
    After the crowded ballroom, it was a relief to ride the escalator to the nearly deserted lobby, where I called Duane on my cell phone. He was clearly startled to be summoned so soon.
    “It hasn’t been more than forty-five minutes,” he protested. “I haven’t even started my pecan pie.”
    “If it’s any comfort, we didn’t get our dessert either. Get a to-go