“Miss Sterling,” Clara said, her voice steady despite the frantic pounding in her chest, “I assure you, I didn’t see a necklace.”
“Of course you would say that,” Beatrice chimed in, eager to play her part in the drama. “It could have fallen onto the plate, and you just whisked it away with the scraps.”
Mr. Dubois rushed over, his face pale and slick with sweat. “Miss Sterling, what seems to be the trouble?”
“The trouble, Dubois,” Victoria said, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at Clara, “is that my necklace, a piece of jewelry worth a small fortune, has vanished, and your waitress here was the last person near me. I want her searched. I want the kitchen searched. I want that necklace found.”
This was the checkmate. A public branding. In this rarefied world, the word of Victoria Sterling against that of a waitress was an open-and-shut case. Clara would be fired. Her reputation shattered. The accusation of theft, even if unproven, would be a permanent stain, a professional death sentence.
Mr. Dubois looked at Clara, his eyes a mixture of pity and pleading. “Clara May, did you see anything at all?”
“No, sir,” Clara said firmly. “I cleared the plates and took them directly to the kitchen.”
“Search her pockets,” Beatrice demanded.
“That won’t be necessary,” Clara said, her voice cutting through the rising tide of hysteria. She looked Mr. Dubois in the eye. “I will happily empty my pockets. I have nothing to hide.” She calmly took out her server’s notepad, a pen, and a tube of hand lotion, placing them on a nearby service stand for all to see.