"Nothing," Marco said.

Dave made a note, then said, "Abby, your report?"

"Lots of packages were delivered to Blume's Art Shop and to Delphi's home, but none of the carriers would reveal information about them, so I'm at a dead end on the wig hunt. Maybe I should just drop that thread. The red wig idea was pure speculation anyway. And, as you both realize, we can't turn a blind eye to the possibility of Libby being guilty." I resisted the urge to glance at Marco for his reaction, but I guessed he wasn't smiling.

"Just a reminder," Dave said. "I'm not trying to prove Libby's guilt or innocence. I only want to direct the guilt away from her. And don't sell yourself short on your wig theory, because when I called Detective Wells this morning, she said they'd just finished processing several strands of red hair that they'd found on the blanket wrapped around Delphi's body. And guess what? The strands were synthetic."

"Wow," I said. "Grace guessed right. Then whoever carried Delphi's body to the car must have been wearing the wig."

"Did Detective Wells finally admit to the likelihood of the killer being someone other than Libby?" Marco asked.

"Not in so many words," Dave said. "That doesn't necessarily mean she'll act on it unless she sees other evidence pointing toward another suspect and away from Libby, so we'd better come up with that evidence soon."

"I'm puzzled by the wig strands found on the blanket around Delphi's body," Marco said. "Aren't the strands sewn in? Wouldn't it take some force to pull them loose?"

Both men looked to me for answers. "Sorry," I said, "I've never owned a wig-well, unless you want to count that Bride of Frankenstein fright wig I wore for a costume party once.... That's it! I should have thought of that before. The wig must have come from a costume shop, not a wig shop, because a cheap wig would shed all over the place. I'll call around to the costume shops in the area and see if I can find out who bought a red wig recently."

"Do the cops know yet where the initial crime scene was?" Marco asked.

"Delphi's kitchen," Dave replied, "where it appears that Delphi was struck with a wine bottle. They found an unopened bottle on the floor amidst dirt and debris from a broken potted plant, but they're still processing the evidence, so there's no fingerprint analysis yet."

"How about the autopsy report?" I asked him.

"It came in just a while ago," he said, shuffling through the expanding stack of paperwork. "In a nutshell it says death came as a result of blunt-force trauma to the right temporal area, consistent with blows from a smooth, spherical object, causing internal hemorrhaging of the brain. No other bruising on the body was found, but the fingernails were broken and the fingertips were covered in blood. That was consistent with the detective's report that said Delphi was found facedown with hands outstretched as though she'd been trying to pull herself forward. However, the blow that eventually killed her was most likely delivered while she was standing."

"It sounds like Delphi was trying to get away from her attacker," I said.

"If someone grabbed the wine bottle and whacked her in the head," Marco said, "it sounds like a crime of passion, done in the heat of anger."

"No way," I said. "Buying a wig, having a key made- that murder was planned."

"Not necessarily," Marco said. "The wig might have been used to trick Delphi into opening the door, making her think it was Libby without her house key. The killer might have gone there with other intentions, but when Delphi didn't cooperate, the killer turned violent."

"Detective Wells needs to talk to Cora," I said. "She's big and rough and has a criminal record."

"They haven't located her yet," Dave said. "Detective Wells was pretty darned embarrassed when I told her about Cora being an impostor."

"The detective should have done her homework," I said.

"Next suspect, Kayla Olin," Dave said, placing a paper on the desk so we could see it. "This is a copy of the docket sheet that shows the chronology of Kayla's case against Delphi and her agency. The lawsuit was filed over three years ago, and the plaintiffs were Kayla Olin, and Karen and Robert Olin-probably the girl's parents."

Dave picked up the report to scan it. "Depositions were taken, settlement conferences were held, mediations were attempted, and hearings were continued- looks like Delphi's lawyers dragged it out as long as they could. Let's see.... Okay, here we go. The jury's verdict against the defendant was entered in the amount of one and a half million dollars."

"Wow!" I said. "That was a huge award."

"Delphi filed a praecipe for appeal thirty days later," Dave noted. "Six months after that, the original judgment was affirmed and entered of record, which means that Delphi's appeal failed." He put the docket sheet aside and picked up another. "This is Delphi's bankruptcy filing in which the judgment was wiped out. It's date-stamped October fourteenth of this year."

"Three weeks before the murder," Marco pointed out. "Timely."

"I hear what you're saying," Dave said, "but it wasn't like Kayla hadn't known what was coming. Her attorney would have warned her what the bankruptcy would do to her judgment."

"It's one thing to be told what could happen," Marco argued, "and quite another to have it become reality. Kayla could have held out hope that the judge would exempt her claim, and when that hope was taken away, she decided to get even with the woman who destroyed her life."

"Kayla's not even twenty years old," I argued. "That's a pretty drastic step for a young woman to take. Besides, she must have sued the surgeon and got some money."

"You're right," Dave said. "The doctor's insurance company settled with her, but it's under seal, so there's no way to know what that amount was. However, those policies usually have a hundred-thousand-dollar limit."

"A hundred grand isn't bad, but it's a far cry from one and a half million," Marco said. "And I can't help but wonder why her mother is being so protective of her that she won't even let her daughter speak to me."

Dave checked his watch. "Let's meet again tomorrow at five. Do you have your game plans now?"

"I'll keep trying to get in touch with Kayla," Marco said, "and I'll see if I can track down Cora."

"I'll follow up on the wig and try to make contact with Oliver," I said.

"Remember," Dave said, "if you do set up a meeting, take Marco along."

"You didn't tell Marco he had to take me along when he went to Kayla's house."

"That's because I haven't almost been killed going after murderers," Marco said. The corner of his mouth twitched as he stood up, as though he was teasing me. "So, maybe I'll see you at the funeral home later?"

I gave him a coy smile. "Maybe."

Considering how often I'd been to the huge old Victorian house that housed the Happy Dreams Funeral Home, I shouldn't have felt ill at ease. Then again, it wasn't every day that I saw my clone standing in front of a coffin greeting well-wishers. Libby was wearing a smartly tailored black knit dress with a black patent belt and heels and gold jewelry, her red hair fashioned into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, and a lace handkerchief in her hand, looking every bit the bereaved daughter. I had opted for a gray sweater dress with a black belt, and a black patent headband in my hair. Even so, I was still offered condolences.

A line of people stretched around the perimeter of Parlor A and through the hallway to the front door. I was betting most had come out of curiosity. They'd been reading about Delphi for years and wanted to catch a last glimpse of the once-famed model.

To my surprise, Oliver was nowhere to be seen. I glanced around to see whom else I knew and caught sight of Marco standing a few yards from Libby. He appeared to be scanning the room, too, and when our gazes met, he gave me a nod of acknowledgment. I brightened at once, then dimmed. It was so hard to get used to him not being my boyfriend.

When my turn in line finally came, Libby wrapped her arms around me as though we were long-lost sisters, and there we stood, locked in an embrace, rocking back and forth, as she wept and keened, her red head pressed to mine. "You'd think they were twins," someone whispered behind me, only to be hushed.

"Mummy's really gone, Abby," Libby wailed. "She's really gone."

Taking my hand, she led me to the coffin, where she fussed over her mother's hair. "They did it all wrong. Mummy would be so upset. I'd better call Mrs. Dove in here and have her fix it." She swung around, seeming not to notice the curious faces staring at her.

"Mrs. Dove?" she called loudly. "Mrs. Dove, Mummy needs you."

"Your mom's hair is fine, Libby," I whispered in her ear, turning her toward the coffin. "Get a grip. Where's Oliver? Why isn't he here with you?"

Libby glanced over her shoulder as though she hadn't realized her brother was gone. "I don't know. He was here." She spotted Marco and motioned him over. The crowd watched with growing interest as we formed a huddle at one end of the coffin.

"Do you know where Oliver went?" Libby asked.

"I haven't seen him since I told him I wanted to talk to him later," Marco said. "He probably slipped out when the people started pouring in about fifteen minutes ago."

"I'll look for him," I said, and turned, only to have Libby grab my wrist and pull me back.

"Why do you both want to talk to Oliver?" she asked.

"We just need to clear up a few things," Marco assured her.

"What things? Is Oliver in trouble?"

"Calm down. There're just some things I want to ask him," Marco told her.

"What things?" Libby demanded like a petulant child.

"Libby, you hired me to do an investigation," Marco said firmly. "Are you going to let me do what I need to do?"

As though her father had scolded her, Libby instantly became docile. "Yes."

"Good. Now go back to the line of people waiting to talk to you."

Libby gave him a teary-eyed glance. "Will you stay with me until Oliver comes back?"

Oh, ick. How could Marco put up with her? "I'll see if I can find Oliver," I said, and walked away in disgust.

I stepped out of the parlor and glanced around. The hallway ran up the middle of the old mansion from the front door, through the grand foyer, between the two funeral parlors, then, farther back, between the lounge area (once a morning parlor) and a kitchen, to the back door. Hmm. Where would Oliver be? Maybe Max and Delilah had seen him.

As I started toward the kitchen, I heard, "Psst."

I turned and glanced down the hallway, but no one was in sight.

"Psst. Over here."

The whisper came from Parlor B, so I stepped to the doorway for a look inside. Because the room wasn't in use, wooden shutters had been drawn beneath the heavy burgundy brocade drapery, blocking out all light, making it hard to identify the shapes inside.

"Is the coast clear?" the whisperer asked.

"Oliver, is that you?"

"Sh-h-h! Is the coast clear?"

Yep, it was Oliver. "Why are you hiding? You should be standing beside Libby."

A hand shot out, grabbed my arm, and yanked me into the room, pulling me behind the door. Another hand covered my mouth. "I'm being followed, ma'am," Oliver whispered in my ear. "Don't blow my cover."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

*liver had a cover? As a grieving son-or lunatic? "Do you understand?" he asked. He didn't sound threatening, just frightened.

I nodded. I could have elbowed him hard in the abdomen and gotten away, but my instincts were telling me I wasn't in danger, and I needed to talk to him anyway, so I decided to play it out, see who was following him and why.

When he removed his hand from my mouth, I whispered, "You're not being followed, Oliver. Marco Salvare just wanted to talk to you. You know who he is- the owner of Down the Hatch. He's the private investigator your sister hired."

"I know who Salvare is," Oliver said. "This is someone else. You've got to find out who he is, ma'am. It's vital to the mission."

"You want me to find out?" I took a step back and bumped my head on the door. "How am I supposed to do that?" I asked in a low voice, rubbing my head.

"Libby showed me her scrapbook. You solve cases. This should be a piece of cake. A cakewalk. A walk in the park."

"You don't need me, Oliver. Just confront the guy. Ask him what he wants."

"Can't do that, ma'am. He might be with the feds. They hate us paramilitary men."

"Have you actually seen this person?"

"Not face-to-face, ma'am, but he's out there. He drives a black car that cruises by my place at midnight every night, on the dot, spot-on. One time I came home and my door was ajar. I know he bugged my apartment."

"Did you check for bugs?"

Oliver glanced around. "Those government agents are sneaky, ma'am. They know where to place bugs so they can't be found. Right now he's in that crowd across the hall. I felt his eyes on me, watching, waiting, waiting and baiting."

"Why would you have a tail? Have you done something wrong? Broken any laws?" Committed murder?

Oliver leaned closer. "They find reasons to put people like me away, ma'am."

"People like you?"

"You know what I mean."

Lunatics? "So, basically, you want me to follow the person who's following you."

"I don't care how you do it, ma'am. I'll pay you a thousand dollars to learn his identity."

Wow. That would pay for the repair of one of my coolers and leave some cash to spare. Still, I had to proceed with caution. If Oliver wasn't the killer, neither was he the sanest person I'd ever met. "If I find out who your tail is, what are you going to do about it?"

He thought for a moment, then said cryptically, "First I have to know who I'm dealing with, ma'am. Know thine enemy. Enemy mine."

I'd have to set up a surveillance to see if Oliver had a tail, then trace the guy's license plate. Then I could decide if I wanted to turn over the information to him. Oliver was right. It would be a piece of cake-and hopefully my bargaining tool, as well.

"Tell you what, Oliver. I'll take your case if you'll answer some questions first."

He hesitated. "What kind of questions, ma'am?"

"About your mother's death."

I could see the hollows where his eyes were, and knew he was staring at me, debating whether to cooperate. "Are you working with Salvare, ma'am?"

"No, I'm an independent operator."

"Would you explain that, ma'am?"