"So you're saying she was angry with him?"

"Venting isn't exactly the same as anger; it's more like letting off steam," I sidestepped neatly. A quick lesson from Psych 101.

"And it never occurred to you to tell me about this?"

He was beginning to remind me of Sam Waterston, the prosecutor on Law & Order.

I struggled for a light touch. "Hey, I'm a talk show psychologist, remember? I listen to people's problems all day long. Most of them are calling to complain about someone in their lives, so I wasn't too surprised when Kathryn told me about her daughter and the encounter group. She was just one more person with a gripe, that's all. It happens all the time."

"Yes, but the people they're complaining about don't usually end up dead, do they?"

Touche. "In your professional opinion," he said, barely containing a smirk, "would you say that Kathryn Sinclair was mentally unbalanced or potentially violent? Could she be delusional?"

"What? No, of course not," I said hurriedly. Why was he slapping her with a medical diagnosis? Was he on a fishing expedition, or did he really have some cold, hard facts that made her a viable suspect? "She's none of those things. She's just a mother who was upset over the way her daughter was treated." I hesitated, trying to choose my words carefully. I had the feeling that he was mentally ticking away everything I told him, even without Opie and his ever-present notebook.

Rafe shot me a wry look that told me he guessed I was uncomfortable with the line of questioning. "Go on." I had the feeling he was keeping his voice deliberately even, trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

"I don't know why she chose to confide in me, but she did. She'd heard me on the radio. Sometimes it gives people the idea of a connection, even though they're total strangers to me." I shook my head. "I know it sounds strange, but that's the only explanation I can think of."

"Interesting," Martino said. He finished his lemonade and slowly stood up. Every move he made was relaxed, fluid, and he walked with an air of easy confidence. Very s.e.xy. "I'll be back in touch with you; we may want to take a deposition."

"A deposition?" So he really considered Kathryn Sinclair a suspect? I suddenly felt uneasy, as though I had ratted her out, all on the basis of a brief interaction at the memorial service. "About my conversation with Kathryn, you mean?"

He didn't answer, and I found myself trotting along behind him like Pugsley pursuing his chew toy. My confidence was wilting like one of the quesadillas heating on the grill. I decided I better say something--fast--both to maintain my dignity and to set the record straight.

"I hope you didn't get the wrong impression from what I told you about Kathryn Sinclair. She was upset, that's all, and people say things that are out of character when they're under stress." I wanted to sound professional and just a touch conciliatory, but would he buy it?

I heard a little noise in the kitchen and suspected Mom was peeking around the door to spy on us, but I didn't dare turn to look. The fact is, I couldn't take my eyes off Rafe. There was something wildly attractive about the broad shoulders, the chiseled features, the flashing dark eyes. I could sense my earlier annoyance with him starting to soft-shoe toward the shadows, and my heart melted a little.

Then he frosted me with a look that killed the warm little buzz building up in my veins and stilled the pitter-patter in my heart. Rafe had his cop face on, and he was back to cop-speak.

"Thanks for the heads-up," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "I'll be sure to remember that the next time I'm interviewing a felon. Nothing like a little nugget of advice from a talk show shrink to keep me on track."

Ouch.

As Rafe walked to the door, his hand grazed my arm, and my traitorous skin tingled a little when I felt the touch of his warm fingers. I blanked on a snappy retort, and he turned to face me as he opened the door. "Oh, and that deposition I told you about? The one I may need you to give, down at the station?"

"Yes?"

"Just to clarify things, it's not about Kathryn Sinclair." He paused. "I'm going to be asking you some questions about Lark Merriweather." He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the k.n.o.b. "Oh, and in the future? Leave the investigating to us, Nancy Drew. Okay?"

And then he was gone.

Chapter 15.

When Lark showed up at the condo a few minutes later, Mom was nearly swooning from her all-too-brief encounter with Detective Martino.

"Maggie, you never warned me how good-looking he was," she gushed, spooning salads onto our dinner plates. The quesadillas from the grill were a little overdone but still edible with a hefty dollop of Lark's homemade salsa spooned on top. "Can you imagine? I opened the door and nearly fainted. That young man could have quite a film career if he ever decides to leave police work. He's drop-dead gorgeous."

"I don't think a film career is in the cards for him, Mom. I think he's pretty invested in his detective work. Maybe even obsessively so." I thought ruefully about Rafe and his dedication to the Cypress Grove PD. The thought of him ditching it all for a movie career was about as likely as Hora tio Caine flashing his badge to cadge a free donut and coffee at the Krispy Kreme in north Miami.

Some things are inviolate.

"Well, so was Dennis Farina, and look what happened to him. One moment he's a cop in Chicago and the next thing you know, he's a movie star. All because he was a technical adviser on a film set and Michael Mann noticed he had acting potential."

Mom is an expert on Hollywood trivia and loves to recount stories of people making it against all odds in the film trade. I'm sure she thinks that it's not too late for the Hollywood G.o.ds to smile on her someday.

We were eating dinner on the tiny balcony and I could see that Lark was more than a little unnerved to hear about Rafe's surprise visit. She barely touched the vegetarian version of a key lime pie I'd whipped up earlier that day. It's laced with fresh lime juice along with vegan cream cheese, and it's usually a big hit with her.

"But what did he want, exactly?" Lark lowered her voice to a near whisper as if Rafe was lurking somewhere in the magnolia bushes under the balcony or had planted a bug in the salt shaker. "Why did he show up here at the condo?"

I shrugged. "Um, I'm not really sure," I hedged. Later, I mouthed. I glanced over at Mom and raised my eyebrows a fraction of an inch, and Lark got the message. We'd talk privately after dinner when we took Pugsley for his evening stroll.

We finished our coffee, and as always, Mom pivoted the spotlight back to herself. The talk turned to WYME, and I could see Mom was angling for another guest-host spot on my show. She said she planned to spend a few more days in Cypress Grove, and I wondered whether she was staying with us out of concern for Lark or because she hoped to revive her flagging acting career.

Doing a radio talk show on WYME is certainly the bottom rung of the show business ladder, but Mom believes in trying every avenue to further her career. Holding on by her fake, French-manicured fingernails if necessary. Anything it takes to "get her name out there," as she calls it.

She is nothing if not persistent, and I admire that quality in her. I wondered whether she'd told Edgar about her latest gig and whether he'd encouraged her to bug Vera Mae for another chance. Or maybe I was reading too much into it, and she had just enjoyed being on the air with me.

Right after dinner, Lark and I took Pugsley out for his walk. Pugsley is a big fan of evening walks and has developed a cute trick of tugging his leash off the door k.n.o.b and dragging it across the rug until we hook it to his collar. Then he runs in manic circles until we rouse ourselves from the sofa and head outside with him. It's obvious who's the master and who's the slave in this relationship.

Lark was uncharacteristically quiet as we started out, and I was lost in thought. We live on a leafy street in a quiet, residential neighborhood that's canopied by banyan trees. The only commercial enterprise is the Seabreeze Inn next door. With its pale lemon exterior and glossy white ginger-bread trim, the big Victorian looks more like a private house than a B and B. Only a discreet, hand-painted sign made from white birch announces that guests are welcome. When the inn is full, Ted simply brings the sign inside. It's all very casual, and he has the same guests stay with him year after year. After the disaster with Guru Sanjay, I doubt he'd ever be willing to host another conference.

I glanced up at the wide veranda to see whether Ted might be outside chatting with the guests, but the porch was empty, the hanging baskets of ferns swaying in the gentle evening breeze. I suddenly remembered those audience evaluations Ted had shown me. Had Rafe stopped by to pick up them up the morning of Guru Sanjay's memorial service?

I made a mental note to ask Ted the next time I saw him. Of course, I had my own copy of the threatening evaluation tucked away in my underwear drawer. I had copied it impulsively and had no idea what I was going to do with the information, but I just had a gut feeling it might come in handy.

Was it simply a negative evaluation written by a disgruntled conference-goer, or was it something more sinister? A note from the murderer? But why would anyone who was planning a murder want to advertise the fact? Was it written by a man or a woman? Presumably the police would a.n.a.lyze it, and that would be one of the first things they might try to determine.

I didn't dare tell Rafe Martino that I had made my own copy; he might accuse me of tampering with evidence.

I was a little rattled by the idea that Rafe and company had attended Guru Sanjay's memorial service and that I'd been watched so closely. I hadn't even noticed, I thought ruefully. I'd played down my conversation with Kathryn Sinclair when I spoke with Rafe, and I wasn't sure why. Was I biding my time because I was too caught up in my own investigation? Did Rafe really have any justification for telling me to back off?

I was still smarting from the crack about Nancy Drew.

I didn't really think Kathryn Sinclair had murdered Guru Sanjay, but I didn't like the idea that Lark was still the number-one suspect. I was mulling this over when Lark broke into my thoughts.

"There's a couple of things you don't know about me," she began. She tossed me a nervous glance, and her blue eyes clouded with an emotion I couldn't quite place. Doubt? Apprehension? Her voice wobbled a little and she bit her lower lip, scuffing her flip-flops on the packed-oyster-sh.e.l.l pavement. We were standing by a banyan tree, which Pugsley was sniffing with such intensity, you'd think he was looking for work as a bomb-detecting dog.

I decided to cut to the chase. "Look, if you're talking about the brawl in the bar in Michigan? I already know about it, Lark. But I'd be interested in hearing your side of it. If you want to tell me, that is. It's entirely up to you."

Lark let her breath out in a slow puff of air. "I was going to tell you the truth right away, Maggie, and then things just got crazy. You know how you just put things off and then you can never find the right time to say something?"

"Yes, I've done that myself." I felt a tug at the leash. Pugsley had finally decided there weren't any nuclear explosives tucked between the lush leaves of the banyan tree, and now he was ready to head on down the street. Pugsley is a creature of habit and insists on making his appointed rounds, going down the same streets in the same order and stopping at various points of interest.

"The whole incident in the bar--it's not what you think," she said, stealing a quick look at me.

I raised my eyebrows. "It sounds like it was pretty serious."

"He had it coming, believe me," she blurted out. She slapped her hand over her mouth in a girlish gesture and gave a rueful smile. "I know that's a terrible thing to say, but he really did, Maggie. There's more to the story than meets the eye."

"There usually is." I plastered a nonchalant look on my face. I was still having trouble imagining Lark as a crazed woman attacking a guy in a bar and wondered what possible explanation there could be. Temporary insanity? Hormonal imbalance? There was no way to reconcile violent behavior with this gentle soul walking beside me.

"Okay, here's what happened." She took a deep breath. "The guy I attacked? He wasn't just some jerk in a bar who made a pa.s.s at me. I knew the guy. He'd been dating my sister and he nearly destroyed her."

I widened my eyes. This added a new dimension to the story.

Lark's voice quivered with emotion. "She was so messed up, I practically had to do an intervention with her. When I saw him there, laughing and having a few beers with his friends, I just lost it, that's all. I thought about all the pain he had caused, and I guess I just went ballistic. I can barely remember what happened. It was like a red haze in front of my eyes, and then it was all over and he was just lying there." She shivered a little at the memory and wrapped her thin arms around herself.

I shook my head, confused. "You were angry with him because of something he did to your sister? Did any of this come out at the trial?"

"Not really. But it's probably why I was allowed to plea-bargain to a lesser charge. The jury wasn't allowed to hear about his past offenses, and my sister's record was sealed because she was a juvy. But you know how it is in a small Michigan town; everyone knew who he was and what he was."

"And what was he?"

"The guy was the local drug dealer. Sc.u.m of the earth." Lark's tiny hands were clenched into fists, and her mouth had tightened into a thin line.

I raised my eyebrows. "How long was your sister mixed up with him?"

"Nearly a year. I can't explain it. She's a smart girl, but she just made some really dumb mistakes with men." Lark shook her head as if she shared my bewilderment.

As Vera Mae would say, "When love flies in the window, common sense walks out the door."

I paused, thinking. "You said she was a juvenile. So this is your younger sister?"

"Yes, my kid sister. She was barely seventeen when she met this guy. She was very young and impressionable. She was working at a Dairy Queen, saving money for college. You can't get more middle American than that, can you? He told her he was a performance artist from New York. A performance artist, can you imagine?" She made a little snorting noise. "I wonder where he came up with that line."

"He probably wanted to explain why he didn't have a nine-to-five job, like the rest of us working stiffs," I said dryly.

While living in Venice Beach one summer in my early twenties, I learned that the term "performance artist" is often code for "unemployed." I met a few guys who spent their days panhandling and their nights sleeping in their cars, and they all called themselves performance artists. "So she met this guy and she was completely taken in by him, maybe even fell in love with him?"

"Big-time. She was always into the arts, and he filled her head with crazy ideas that the two of them would escape to New York or L.A. Just crazy, drug-fueled dreams. I never thought she'd get into drugs, though. She just got into the wrong crowd, smoked some gra.s.s with them, and then she got hooked on X and crystal meth. The heavy-duty stuff."

"What happened next?"

"I got her into rehab and she did the twenty-eight-day thing. It worked. Then she came home and the judge ordered her to a twelve-step program. Ninety-ninety. Ninety meetings in ninety days and she had to have a little card stamped to prove she really went every day."

"Sounds like she was compliant with treatment. A lot of drug addicts aren't."

Lark nodded. "I know. They warned me that there was always the chance of relapse, but Rain knew a good thing when she saw it. And she was grateful for getting a second chance. She said she learned a lot in rehab and she's stayed off drugs ever since. She's a good kid."

"Rain?" I smiled.

"Short for Rainbow. What can I say? My parents were hippies."

"It could have been worse; they could have named her Mango. Or Kiwi."

"Exactly . . . I just wanted you to know the whole story, Maggie. You know I didn't kill Guru Sanjay, but I bet the cops will try and use this against me."

Pugsley guided us through the last stretch of the evening's walk, and we headed for home after he'd enjoyed a long, leisurely sniff at a neighbor's bougainvillea bush. A dog behaviorist appeared on my radio show last month, and he explained that a dog sniffs a bush or tree the way you and I read the newspaper. It's endlessly fascinating to him. Who would think so much drama could be found on the base of a tree trunk or a lamppost? Love, hate, revenge, betrayal, all the makings of a Shakespearean play sitting within sniffing distance of Pugsley's shiny black nose.

It's his way of scoping out the local news. Who's been on his home turf? Are they fearful? Friendly? Aggressive? Apparently dogs can tell all this from one sniff. He might pick up the scent of some familiar neighbor dogs and the occasional new dog on the block. My guest expert told the listeners never to hurry their pets through this little ritual, and said, "Remember, it's only a walk around the block to you, but it's the highlight of your dog's day."

Mom had made hot chamomile tea for us, and we sat com panionably around the table, munching almond biscotti. I glanced over at Lark, petting Pugsley, who was happily curled up in her lap munching one of his organic dog biscuits. Lark looked more composed and relaxed than she had before we took the walk together, and she bent down to nuzzle him. When our eyes met over the top of his furry head, she gave me a guileless smile, her expression radiating sweetness and innocence.

Except now I knew there was another side of Lark, a dark side of her that could turn violent if provoked. This is the kind of thing a prosecutor could have a field day with. I shuddered at the image of Lark in a prison jumpsuit with a chain around her waist and willed it out of my mind.

There was no way Lark could have killed Guru Sanjay, and I was going to have to prove it. And I had to do it quickly, before the Cypress Grove PD could ask the DA to slap her with a murder charge.

Chapter 16.

It was almost eight thirty when Mom had a sudden craving for a cappuccino float from Sweet Dreams, a trendy little ice cream shop that's just a few blocks away on Magnolia Street, the main drag in Cypress Grove. "It's still open, isn't it?" she asked, grabbing her purse.

"It closes at ten; we have plenty of time." Lark fastened Pugsley's leash and pulled on her running shoes. "Let's walk. It's still light out and it's a nice night." She glanced at me. "You're coming, right, Maggie?"

I hesitated for about two seconds, reminding myself that I needed to prepare for tomorrow's show, and then I caved. Sweet Dreams' signature dish, a tangy lemon sorbet topped with fresh raspberry sauce, was calling my name.

We'd walked only a block when I suddenly remembered I had agreed to do a pre-interview with one of my upcoming guests, Dr. Cornelius Abramson, a psychology professor from the local junior college. He was teaching an evening cla.s.s and I'd promised to phone him at nine o'clock sharp tonight.

I'd been putting off calling him for days, partly because I was so involved with the murder investigation and partly because I'd met the professor socially a couple of times and the guy was mind-numbingly dull. But since he and Cyrus, the station manager, are golfing buddies, I couldn't think of any polite way to wriggle out of it.

Cyrus had promised the professor that he could speak on his favorite subject, Jungian archetypes. Since I was confident my entire listening audience wouldn't know an archetype from an armadillo, I felt fairly certain the show was doomed to be a total snooze. The purpose of the pre-interview was to try to encourage him to come up with some interesting anecdotes. Wildly entertaining would be even better, but I didn't want to press my luck. This guy wasn't Jay Leno.

A show about the mind of a serial killer would get good ratings, I thought wistfully, but I had no idea how that would fit in with Jungian archetypes. And I doubted that the good professor would, either.

I decided to call him from Sweet Dreams but patted my pocket and sighed when I realized I'd forgotten my cell phone. So after I made my apologies to Mom and Lark, there was nothing for me to do but head back to the condo. I made it back in a record four minutes flat and was panting a little when I turned the corner to my street. The sky was darkening but the humidity was still high, and my short-sleeved blouse was clinging to me.

I had just bolted up the front stairs and stepped into the hallway when my heart skipped a beat.

The front door to the condo was open a crack.

I stared at it for a long moment, thinking. My breath caught in my throat. If it really was open, I should scurry down the front steps and get help, right? But was it really open? I was torn with indecision. I took another look.

There it was. Hardly noticeable, but yes, there was the tiniest sliver of light spilling out onto the darkened landing. I felt a p.r.i.c.kly sensation creep up my spine and forced myself to take a deep breath to steady myself.

Was it my imagination, or just a trick of the light, or did I see a shadow moving inside?