Chapter 12: The Railing

I got to the Aldous Hotel roof at five, three hours before the party, with a clipboard and a socket wrench borrowed from the doorman.

The roof terrace ran all the way around the building, with a glass-and-steel railing at waist height and the lake spread out below it.

I started at the north corner and tested every post by hand.

The first six were solid.

The seventh moved when I leaned on it, and I could see why.

Two of its four bolts were gone, and the other two had been loosened with a tool and put back by hand.

I stuck a HAZARD sticker on the post and photographed it from three sides.

"Miss, the party starts at eight," said the hotel manager, who had followed me out in a suit the color of toast.

"This railing is unsafe."

"It's decorative."

"Decorative things are what kill people. Nobody is careful around them."

He looked at the wrench.

"I'll have it looked at on Monday."

"You'll have it looked at tonight, or you'll rope it off."

He sighed and went to find a velvet rope.

Then a stanchion.

Then a second stanchion, because I wouldn't take the first one alone.

By six, the loose section was fenced off with red cord and a laminated sign, and I felt, for the first time in two weeks, entirely competent.

Marguerite Moncrieff arrived at seven-thirty with the photographer.

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