"You were wonderful. And so beautiful," Abigail said in an awestruck tone.

Lola put her hand on her heart, her eyes welling up a little. "I'll always look back fondly on those early days in New York. Acting in the daytime dramas was my first entree into show business."

"I loved that whole story line with Root and Sledge," Abigail continued. "I cried when Sledge had an affair with the Romanian nanny and didn't tell anyone about it. Not even his own brother, Root."

"Yes, that Sledge," Lola said fondly. "He was quite the scamp. And of course I'm sure you remember that a baby resulted from"--Lola paused delicately--"that dalliance." A long beat. "Baby Giuseppe."

Baby Giuseppe? I raised my eyebrows, but Lola ignored me.

"Hey, I remember that scene!" Vera Mae's face lit up. "Sledge was stranded at a cabin in Big Sur with the nanny and he had to deliver the baby himself. I always wondered why he never told anyone about it. It was like he forgot the whole thing ever happened."

"Delivering your own baby in a mountain cabin? That seems like a pretty big thing to forget," I interjected. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lola perched on the edge of her chair, her mouth open wide like a seagull hoping for a flying carp.

"A lot of our viewers wrote in about that plotline," Lola said disarmingly. "You're right, they did think it was a little far-fetched. Delivering a baby isn't like delivering a pizza, you know." Again, the girlish laugh that sounded like temple bells.

"Exactly!" Abigail agreed. "And it would have stayed a secret forever, except for that whole episode with Carlotta in Genova Hospital. She was out for revenge, right, Lola?"

"She certainly was," Lola said sweetly. "Carlotta never learned that revenge is a dish best served cold."

Hmm. A dish best served cold. My mind had been playing with the notion of revenge, secrets, and the idea of waiting to put the screws to someone. Would that explain Lenore Cooper's timetable for polishing off Guru Sanjay? After all, she had years to watch his meteoric rise to fame while her own career faltered, book sales dropping, speaking gigs tapering off. So was she biding her time, secretly plotting his demise?

Time to get back into my own show. "You know, sometimes we block things from our consciousness," I began. "It can be a defense mechanism, or it can be the result of--"

"And does anyone out there remember how Carlotta finally got her revenge?" Lola asked her new fans in radio-land. "This was a key plot point," she explained helpfully.

Vera Mae, who was standing behind the gla.s.s window in the control room, chewed on a pencil nub, deep in thought. She looked so intent, you would think Alex Trebek were standing by with a big fat cash prize for the right answer.

"I remember!" Abigail yelled. "Carlotta had a baby with Sledge's twin brother."

"Getting back to our original topic--," I cut in.

But once again, Vera Mae was too quick for me. "Well, folks, we just have time for one more call and then . . . oops, we have to take a commercial break right now!" Vera Mae punched a b.u.t.ton on the control panel, yanked off her headset, and skittered around to our side of the window.

"What a show!" She hugged Lola and said happily, "You know, this past hour just flew by. I think this is the best Maggie Walsh show we've ever had!"

I was trying to think of a clever comeback when Cyrus stuck his head in the door, grinning from ear to ear. He gave a big thumbs-up. "Great show, kids! Keep up the good work, Lola. We just may have to hire you! You'd be quite an addition to the WYME team."

Lola was beaming. "Wouldn't that be fun, honey? The two of us working side by side."

Chapter 14.

Mom followed me back to the condo, and after arming each of us with an ice-cold Corona with a wedge of lime, I decided to tell her about the murder investigation. She was still flush from her stint as a radio host and was dancing around the room with Pugsley in her arms, doing a modified tango to a Ricky Martin number. Pugsley was thrilled at the attention and licked her nose rapturously at every twirl, glancing at me over her shoulder. He was practically drooling with happiness and was wriggling so hard, I was afraid she might drop him.

Mom was only half listening to my story, but when I got to the part about Lark being pulled in for questioning, she came to an abrupt halt, turned off the radio, and plunked an annoyed Pugsley down on the parquet floor. Shrugging at the fickleness of humans, he trotted off to his dish of kibble.

"And the really shocking thing is that they aren't even looking at other suspects. They've zeroed in on Lark."

"They suspect Lark? Everyone knows that sweet little thing isn't capable of murder! Who's in charge of the investigation? Maybe I can pull some strings. Or at the very least, I can march down there and give that detective a piece of my mind."

"Mom, that's not a good idea," I said hastily. I could just picture my mother confronting Rafe Martino and shuddered at the visual. "This is a police matter. There's nothing you can add to the case. I only got involved because I'm Lark's roommate. And her friend."

"I did a couple of Matlocks, you know," she said, settling herself into a rattan basket chair I'd picked up at a yard sale. It had a green and white cushion silk-screened with palm trees and could have been a knockoff of one of the pieces in the Humphrey Bogart Collection.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at," I prompted her.

"I'm simply saying that I'm clued in to how the legal system works." She was all set to stroll down memory lane, but before she could do a riff on Andy Griffith in his blue and white seersucker suit, I whirled around to cut her off.

"You did some Matlocks?" I raised my eyebrows. "This is the first I've ever heard of it."

It's a standing joke in Hollywood that whenever actors want to beef up their resumes, they use Matlock as a credit because they figure no one will ever check. After all, they must have taped a zillion Matlock shows, so who would know? It's not like anybody's going to call the producer and double-check.

"Well, maybe it was just one Matlock," Mom said, backpedaling quickly. "And it was a guest shot, so I had very little screen time." Now we were getting closer to the truth. If Mom said she had very little screen time, that meant it was a walk-on; she was probably an extra. Or maybe she was an "under five," meaning she had fewer than five lines. An "under five" might be a waitress in a diner, yelling something like, "Two corn beefs on rye, extra mustard and hold the mayo!" Or a receptionist in a medical drama saying, "The doctor can see you now." It's not usually something you highlight on your resume. In fact, mentioning such a tiny part on your resume smacks of desperation.

I raised my eyebrows and she chewed thoughtfully on a sourdough pretzel stick. "Actually, I may take Matlock off my resume. It makes me seem a little . . . mature, you know. Maybe I should put The O.C. down instead. That sounds much better, doesn't it?" she said, taking a swig of her Corona.

"The O.C.?"

"Yes, Maggie, The O.C. It sounds young and hip. Don't you keep up with these things?"

"Of course I've heard of The O.C.," I said, but I couldn't stop her. Mom was on a roll.

"The O.C.," she continued, "One Tree Hill, Laguna Beach, and all those reality shows filled with beautiful young people. I can hardly keep up with them. It's a youth-oriented culture, darling, a youth-oriented culture. You have to stay on your toes. No one cares about cla.s.sical training anymore; they care about cheekbones and hair extensions. In my day, it was all about the work. Trodding the boards, studying with the great masters like Stella Adler and Sanford Meis ner. The most important thing in those days was honing one's craft."

She put the beer bottle down on a WYME coaster, and her expression clouded for a moment, as if she were contemplating the dismal state of her acting career. I hated to admit it, but she had a point. Outside of old favorites like Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Goldie Hawn, and Diane Kea ton, how many working actresses are there over the age of fifty? Things are tough in Tinseltown, and she knew it.

Still, it was time for a reality check.

"Mom, you were never on The O.C."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't be such a stickler for details," she said. "A minor point. I would have been terrific on that show, but I didn't have Edgar then, and my agent never even sent me over to meet the producers."

"A pity." I sneaked a peek at my watch. I tried to be surrept.i.tious, but Mom was too quick for me.

"Well, let's get back to Lark," she said, switching gears. "How did her name even come up? What's her connection to this guru who was murdered?"

"It's very circ.u.mstantial. She was the last person to see him alive, but she did have a good reason to be angry with him. She gave him a push and it's not certain if he fell and hit his head. Nothing seems really certain except that foul play was involved. They don't even have the autopsy results yet, but that doesn't seem to matter to the Cypress Grove PD. Lark is their main suspect. Their only suspect." I quickly filled her in on the incident in Guru Sanjay's hotel room but stopped short of mentioning Lark's criminal background. I decided it would be best to let Lark bring up the subject herself, when she felt the time was right. I still had trouble believing it, and I wondered whether somehow Nick had left out part of the story. Not deliberately, of course, but maybe there were some details that he didn't know about.

We moved out onto the tiny balcony, sitting side by side on a couple of navy canvas deck chairs, my latest find from "Tarzhay." The balcony is probably only fifty square feet, but it overlooks a shady garden and a pretty little fountain spilling into a pond. I watched the copper green metal dolphins twirling in the spray, the droplets looking like tiny crystals as they landed on the terra-cotta tiles edging the pond.

It was late afternoon, and now that the haze of the day had burned off, a golden glow was settling over the scene. The scent of freshly mowed gra.s.s mingled with the fragrance of the white magnolia bushes r.i.m.m.i.n.g the edge of the garden. The sun was hanging low in the sky like a big orange lollipop, and a soft breeze was ruffling the fronds on the coconut trees. If it hadn't been for this pesky business of a murder investigation, all would be well with the world.

Half an hour later, I decided to throw together a quick dinner on the balcony--quesadillas roasted on the grill, sliced tomatoes with raspberry vinaigrette, and a corn and black bean salad from the deli. The doorbell rang just as I slapped some crumbly cheddar cheese and roasted red peppers into the last tortilla.

"I'll get it," Mom sang out from somewhere inside the condo.

"Probably Lark forgot her key again," I called out. "Tell her dinner will be ready in fifteen."

Except it wasn't Lark.

My barbecuing fork froze in midair and my heart skipped a beat when I heard Mom say, "Well, h.e.l.lo, gorgeous!" Hardly original. This was one of her favorite lines. And not even original. She stole it from Barbra Streisand's acceptance speech on Oscar night.

A friendly yip from Pugsley, and then I heard a s.e.xy male voice that I immediately recognized as Martino's.

Martino? Here?Now? The possibilities burst in my head like fireworks when Mom trilled, "Maggie! Turn down the grill and get in here. We have a guest."

I quickly closed the lid on the grill, wiped my hands on a towel, and paused for a moment, flipping a mental coin. Play it cool? Light? Sardonic? A small voice in the back of my head reminded me to ignore how incredibly hot he was and not fall to pieces at the sight of him. Note to self: Play it cool, Maggie; play it cool.

Of course, my resolve crumbled like a Thin Mint when I saw him. My hormones had stormed into high gear and my mind was running w.i.l.l.y-nilly in a thousand directions. Let's face it: I was a lost cause whenever I was around him.

"Dr. Walsh," he said in that s.e.xy baritone. "I hope I'm not intruding." He looked from Mom to me, a slow grin flickering at the corner of his mouth.

"Intruding? Don't be silly," Mom babbled, practically dragging him into the living room and pushing him into a basket chair. "What would you like to drink? I make a mean mojito. Or there's beer, iced tea, or lemonade." Mom had once played a flight attendant in a B movie, and she seemed to be reprising her "Coffee, tea, or me?" role. Was I imagining it or did she just give him a saucy wink?

He gave her a level look and then nodded. "Some lemonade would be nice. Or just a can of diet cola. Don't bother with a gla.s.s." Don't bother with a gla.s.s? Was he afraid she might try to slip him a roofie? "I'm here on police business," he added, just to let her know it wasn't a social call. Uh-oh.

"Maggie told me you're a detective," Mom gushed. "That is just so exciting. You know, I played a forensic investigator years ago in a movie we shot in Tijuana. Pasiones peligrosas. Dangerous Pa.s.sions. Of course, the script was in English, so it had to be dubbed into Spanish and had limited distribution, but--"

"Mom," I said sharply. "The lemonade?" The moment she sashayed to the kitchen, Rafe turned to me with a disbelieving look.

"Your mom is a movie star?"

"In her own mind. When she said it had limited distribution, she meant three people might have seen it in a drive-in in Kentucky. Before it went straight to video." I paused. "So you're here to see Lark?" Not a sparkling conversation opener, but the best I could do, under the circ.u.mstances.

He looked like a million bucks, a crisp white shirt showing off his Florida tan, sleeves rolled up, his dark hair boy ishly falling over one eye. He wore it a little long, at least compared to other cops I had known, but maybe the detectives had more leeway. He gave me a neutral look I couldn't quite read, and my mind flipped through the possibilities.

"I do want to ask Lark a few more questions. But I really came here tonight to see you, Dr. Walsh." His tone made it clear that pa.s.sion, romance, or even sheer animal l.u.s.t wasn't in the cards. b.u.mmer. He wasn't mixing business and pleasure, after all. Rafe Martino was all business.

"Maggie," I said automatically. "You can call me Maggie."

"Maggie." He managed to make it sound like a caress, and a little hum began in my head. My heart started to pound like crazy, but there was still that cool-cop look that I couldn't quite decipher.

I stalled for time and sat down on the love seat, with the wicker coffee table between us. I was definitely feeling uneasy. Freud would probably say I was out of my psychological safety zone so I was overcompensating by keeping the coffee table between us. Like a barrier. Hmm. I considered the Freudian hypothesis for about two seconds, and then I reminded Uncle Siggy that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

"So what do you want to see me about?" I noticed I was crossing and uncrossing my legs the way perps do on Law & Order, so I made a conscious effort to stay still. My hands felt clammy and I folded them in my lap. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to lean back in the chair, as if I had memorized the entire first chapter of Secrets of Body Language 101.

He probably didn't buy it for a second, because he fixed me with those amazing dark eyes and gave a sad little head shake. "I'm afraid you've been playing detective." His voice had suddenly turned serious. "Not a good idea, Maggie. Poking into things that don't concern you, looking for trouble."

"Looking for trouble?" I wrestled with my conscience for a moment, wondering whether I should come clean.

He looked me square in the eye, as if I were a convicted felon who had violated parole and was heading back to the can. "You're playing a dangerous game, Maggie."

I was struggling to come up with an answer, and Mom chose that moment to pop up from the kitchen like a prairie dog. For an actress, she has an incredibly bad sense of timing. "One lemonade coming up," she said, putting the gla.s.s in front of him with a flourish.

She gave him a big smile and handed him a little c.o.c.ktail napkin and beer nuts like she was auditioning for the role of World's Oldest Living Flight Attendant.

"Thanks." He smiled back at her and I swear she melted. He took a sip and nodded approvingly. "Very nice. Tart, not too sweet." Mom was all set to hover, but I sent her a death glare and she got the message and scurried away.

Rafe waited until she disappeared back into the kitchen before continuing, and I sat perfectly still, heart pounding. What was coming next?

"I hear you've been asking questions about Guru Sanjay," he said coolly. "Interviewing potential witnesses, visiting the crime scene . . ." He let his voice trail off as if he was disappointed in me.

I immediately felt on the defensive. Was he checking up on me? And how did he know I'd visited the Seabreeze? Since I hadn't gone up to Guru Sanjay's bedroom, I could hardly be guilty of visiting the crime scene, but I didn't think this was the time to mention it. I'd hung out on the front porch, talked to Ted Rollins, and swiped one of the audience evaluation forms, but Rafe had no way of knowing that. And this wasn't the time to mention it. And I hadn't tampered with any evidence; I'd copied the form and put the original back in the pile.

"Well, I may have asked a few questions, here and there." I hesitated. "And why shouldn't I? He was a guest on my show, and it's only natural that I'd be interested in finding his killer."

"It's only natural," he echoed in that eerily flat tone. And just the touch of a sardonic smile. His sangfroid act was putting my nerves on edge, and I found myself wishing I could wrap my hands around another frosty Corona.

"Well, yes," I faltered. "Of course it's natural. I'm not just being nosy, if that's what you're hinting at. The sooner I find the real killer, the sooner you can eliminate Lark as a suspect. It should be pretty obvious to you by now that she had nothing to do with it."

The words spilled out in one rush of breath, and I felt a little ripple of anger spreading through my body. Who was Rafe Martino to tell me what to do and who I could or couldn't talk to?

I wondered which "potential witnesses" he was referring to. Was it Lenore Cooper, the disgruntled ex-wife, or Kathryn Sinclair, the angry mother? They were the top two on my suspect list, even if they weren't on the Cypress Grove PD's radar screen yet. If I didn't hunt for the real killer, who would? As far as Rafe was concerned, it seemed to be "case closed."

"Did it ever occur to you that you might be compromising an ongoing investigation?" His voice was low and calm, and he didn't seem to be the tiniest bit upset by my outburst. He took a long swig of lemonade and looked at me. "Doesn't that bother you? To think that you might do or say something that would interfere with police business and make our job a lot harder?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The air between us hummed with tension. Why was he criticizing me for doing a little freelance detective work?

I felt a surge of heat rise to my face, and my voice lifted a little. "I wasn't interfering with anything. I have every right to ask questions," I began, but he cut me off, and a flicker of something cold went through his eyes.

"And you went to his memorial service. We were there, too, you know." He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving my face.

"You were there?" Too late I remembered that cops often went to victims' funerals because often the perpetrator was dumb enough to show up. "I didn't see any of Cypress Grove's finest at the service."

"We were there undercover. We tried to blend."

"Oh, yes, of course." I felt chastised. And moronic. "Then you saw me talking to Kathryn Sinclair," I said without thinking. I regretted it the moment the words were out of my mouth.

"Yes, we did. It looked like the two of you were pretty chummy." He paused, looking at his hands for a moment. "Would you care to tell me what the conversation was about? Had you known her before the service?"

"No," I said quickly. "I never met her before she came up to me in the garden." I neglected to say that Ted Rollins had tipped me off that she'd been making waves about the guru and his dangerous "therapies."

"What did you talk about?"

"Her daughter," I said slowly. "Her daughter, Sarah, was a client of Guru Sanjay's. Well, not exactly a client. She went to one of those encounter groups his organization runs, and she had a bad experience there."

Rafe nodded. "Go on." I had the feeling he already knew all this and was testing me. But why? I had no idea what his agenda was, and it was making me uncomfortable. Like all shrinks, I like to be the one in control, the one asking questions. Rafe Martino was upsetting the natural order of things, and I found it unsettling.

"Kathryn was unhappy with the way her daughter was treated. It sounded as though she was bullied, and eventually"--I paused, trying to be precise--"she had to be hospitalized. Her experience at the encounter group hurt her psychologically and actually damaged her health. It sounded like reckless behavior on the part of Guru Sanjay's organization, and I was surprised to hear about it." I bit my lower lip, wondering what Rafe was thinking.

"Did you ever wonder why she was telling you all this?"

I gave a careless shrug. "No, I didn't even think about it. She knew he'd been a guest on my show and I suppose she thought that I would find it interesting. And as a psychologist, I could understand how destructive the whole experience had been for Sarah." I paused. "I think she just wanted someone to talk to. You know, to vent."