To my surprise, Laurette jumped in with an explanation. "He's a writer for Soap Opera Digest. He's been following Juan Carlos around ever since he played that rapist/preacher on The Hands of Time. He's called my office every day for the past two weeks trying to get the exclusive of our wedding, but I told him no press. This was our private day, not to be shared with the public. Besides, Juan Carlos isn't doing soaps anymore. There's no reason he should be following Juan Carlos around. I think the guy just has a big crush on him."

"He's a sleaze ball. If he comes around again, I swear I'll rip his face off," Juan Carlos said, seething.

"Don't you just love that fiery Latin passion?" Laurette said.

I glanced at Charlie. Neither of us thought much of Laurette's new husband, but neither of us was willing to express that out loud. Yet, anyway.

It was the time for my toast. The rain had subsided and the winds had died down, so luckily I wasn't going to have to shout my sentiments. The clock was also ticking. The caterers had begun wrapping up the food and folding up the card tables. We were down to two minutes before we had to vacate the premises. The buses were already sputtering to life in anticipation of our journey back down the hill. The staff quickly poured plastic flute glasses of champagne and handed them out to all the guests.

Charlie gave me an encouraging pat on the butt and sent me up to the front of the tent, where I addressed the crowd.

"When Laurette asked me to say a few words, and believe me, few is the key word since we all have to be out of here in less than two minutes," I said as the guests laughed politely, "I wracked my brain trying to come up with something profound or moving or funny or-"

"One minute, Jarrod!" Laurette said, prodding me to edit myself and keep it moving.

"But in the interest of time, I will just say this. To Juan Carlos and Laurette, every day may you . . . light up each other's lives and give each other hope to carry on." Okay, so I plagiarized Debbie Boone. But it worked in a pinch. Charlie chuckled, instantly recognizing my source material. Laurette and Juan Carlos didn't get the reference at all. Laurette, teary-eyed, her mascara running, blew me a kiss then grabbed the man of her dreams and sucked on his face some more. The rest of the guests wisely chose to wash down my treacle with champagne.

Someone started coughing. I looked around and spotted Austin Teboe, having just downed his glass of champagne. He was gasping and choking and gripping his throat with his hand. Everyone stood, stunned for a moment, before one of the groomsmen, who had just returned from ousting Rudy Pearson, ran forward and grabbed Austin in an attempt to give him the Heimlich maneuver. But Austin wasn't choking on a chicken wing. This sounded different. A white fizzy liquid spilled out of his mouth as he broke away from the groomsman's hold and staggered through the throng of people. His eyes bulged, his face was ghostly white, and his wheezing and coughing came to an abrupt halt as he stopped in his tracks, the life swirling out of him. There was an absolute stillness as all eyes in the tent watched him. He then fell forward, belly flopping dead into Laurette's perfectly decorated three-tier German chocolate wedding cake.

Chapter 4.

Laurette was wrong to worry about her drunken, trampy sister stealing focus from her big day. The dead body in front of the buffet table was going to do the job for her. By the time the local San Simeon police arrived on the scene, the guests had been herded into the Refectory, the hilltop's sole dining room located in the main house, usually cordoned off for tours but today reopened due to the unusual circumstances. Charlie and I huddled with several of Laurette's fellow talent agents, who were all buzzing about the identity of the deceased. No one seemed to have the slightest idea who he was.

"Austin Teboe," I offered, never one to refrain from a good dish session. "We rode up the hill with him today. He worked in a restaurant in Florida, but he never told us whether he was a waiter, or worked in the kitchen, or parked cars."

"So he was a friend of Juan Carlos's?" asked a tiny woman in a smart suit with frizzy hair so big I was surprised she could hold her head straight. I recognized her as another agent in Laurette's Sherman Oaks office.

"He said he met Juan Carlos at the restaurant. And that the two had personal business that he was here to take care of . . ."

Charlie interceded and gently took my elbow, steering me away from the enraptured group of gossipmongers. "I think the police are ready to talk to us now, Jarrod."

We walked over to the corner of the room where four police officers stood over Juan Carlos and a confused and dazed Laurette, who sat on an antique love seat from the nineteenth century, ignoring the clearly marked sign that said DO NOT SIT ON FURNITURE. The team of investigators were led by a grizzled, balding, pot-bellied detective, who might as well have walked right off the set of Hunter, the Fred Dryer action series from the eighties, where I once guest-starred as a convicted counterfeiter's wayward teenaged son in their memorable sixth season opener.

He shook Charlie's hand. "Lieutenant Cranston."

"Charlie Peters, LAPD. This is my partner, Jarrod Jarvis."

Cranston nodded, ready to welcome me into the brotherhood of peace officers. "You guys up here working on a case?"

"No," I said. "I'm his partner in life, not crime."

This took Cranston by surprise. But it was a new world so he simply grunted and declined further comment.

Charlie was right in his element. He compared notes with Cranston. "We met the victim earlier." Charlie recounted our bus ride up to the Hearst Mansion, and how Dominique and Rudy Pearson, who were both fiercely determined to attend today's nuptials, had left rather abruptly. One by choice. And one by force.

Cranston turned to Juan Carlos. "How did you know the victim ?"

"I didn't," said Juan Carlos, as he sat comforting Laurette.

Either Austin Teboe was lying. Or Juan Carlos was. I'd put my money down on the slippery, opportunistic actor any day.

"Well, according to Mr. Peters here, Mr. Teboe claimed to have known you, and that the two of you had some personal business he was here to talk to you about," said Cranston in a slightly confrontational tone.

"I said I never met him," said Juan Carlos.

Laurette took her husband by the chin and gently turned his face toward hers. "What I want to know is, who is this Dominique person?"

Juan Carlos glanced in my direction, trying to judge whether or not I had any knowledge about his past with her. I decided to make it easy on him. "An ex-girlfriend."

"How come you never mentioned her?" Laurette said.

"We only dated a few weeks. She meant nothing to me."

"Then what was she doing here?"

"She's had a little troubling letting go. I think she may be a little obsessed with me."

"A little obsessed? Honey, she crashed our wedding."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Why? Has she tried contacting you before?" Laurette said.

"Yes," he said. "For some time now."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Cranston stepped forward, interrupting the newlyweds. "Look, the ex-girlfriend is not why we're here. As far as we know, she's alive and well. Our focus is on Mr. Teboe, who sadly is not."

"I'm sorry," said Juan Carlos. "I can't help you. I already told you I've never met the man in my life. And if he's saying I did, he's got me mixed up with somebody else."

Charlie and I exchanged looks, both silently agreeing that Juan Carlos wasn't a very good actor after all.

"That's an awfully big mix-up if he traveled all the way from Florida to track you down at the Hearst Castle, which is up here in the middle of nowhere," I quietly offered.

Laurette stood up, and glared at Charlie and me. Then she pushed forward in my direction. "Jarrod, may I speak to you privately, please?"

I nodded and followed Laurette into the adjoining Assembly Room, where William Randolph Hearst had once smoked stogies with Clark Gable and Jimmy Stewart. I didn't dare take a seat on the historic antique furniture that gave the elongated space its Renaissance flair. Laurette was just too angry to sit.

"Why are you and Charlie attacking my husband?" she said.

"We're not attacking him. But there are a lot of unanswered questions involving his relationship with the deceased."

"What relationship? He's already told the police he didn't know him."

I gave Laurette my best "let's not fool ourselves" gaze. "I just think we should look a little deeper into this and see who might have had reason to off the murder victim."

"How do we even know he was murdered? Maybe it was a heart attack or a stroke or something?"

Laurette had seen the white fizzy liquid come pouring out of Teboe's mouth herself. You didn't have to be William Peterson or Marg Helgenberger to assume it could have been some kind of poison. It was only a matter of time before the coroner would be able to confirm it.

"I can see what you're doing," Laurette said.

"What?"

"You're going to get your kicks again playing Nancy Boy Drew. Just like you did last year when Willard Ray Hornsby died."

"Yes, but if you recall, somebody did indeed murder Willard, and I got to the bottom of it."

"You're not a detective, Jarrod. You shouldn't be sticking your nose into things that don't concern you."

"Why not? Because I might stumble across some dirty laundry belonging to your husband?"

"How dare you? You barely even know him."

"And how well do you know him? For God's sake, Laurette, how could you marry a guy you only met a few weeks ago?"

"Because I love him!"

We both stopped before we said things neither of us would be able to take back. Our relationship had always been strong and solid, but I was reluctant to go traipsing into uncharted territory that could do serious damage to our decades-old friendship. And sometimes Laurette was more manageable when she was hearing things she wanted to hear.

"Honey, I'm sure he's everything you think he is." A little white lie never hurt anyone. But a big one like this could bring the roof down on us. "But a man has died, and I think we owe it to him to find out what really happened."

Laurette sighed. "I hate when you get like this."

"Like what?"

"Like a pit bull that's gotten a hold on an old shoe. I can see it in your eyes, Jarrod. You see Juan Carlos as that shoe, and you're not going to let go no matter what."

She was right, of course. I was certain Juan Carlos was lying about not knowing the murder victim, and I wasn't going to rest now until I unearthed the truth. Unfortunately, this time it meant straining my bond with Laurette. But in the end, I knew whatever I found would be beneficial to her. Either it would put her mind at ease about the commitment she had just made, or more realistically, it would give her enough information to extricate herself from a catastrophic mistake.

Laurette whipped around, gathered up her bulky dress, and headed for the door leading back to the Refectory.

"Fine," she said. "Sniff around all you want. Once the police are done questioning us, we're off for a fabulous honeymoon in Maui anyway."

Still stung by my suspicions, Laurette marched off back inside the dining room to join her husband and her other guests. I could tell there was a sinking feeling deep inside her gut that was gnawing at her, reminding her that she didn't know Juan Carlos as well as she thought. And perhaps maybe there were dark secrets swimming their way to the surface that might wash away the rosy hue on her rose-colored glasses.

To my surprise, the police released the newlyweds and most of the wedding guests within an hour after writing down all of our contact information. The Hearst staff was anxious to clear us out so they could resume their meticulously scheduled tours of the expansive property.

Laurette declined to toss the bouquet. We weren't allowed to throw rice or anything, given the time it would take for the staff to clean it up, so the process of sending off the bride and groom lacked the traditional fanfare and was decidedly anticlimactic, especially given the dramatic events at the reception. Laurette simply waved to all her friends and family, then climbed into the back of a white stretch limousine. It quickly began its descent down the long, winding paved road. Within moments, the giant limo was the size of a matchbox car and it suddenly vanished behind a lush green hill. All the guests then quietly formed a single-file line to board the blue tour buses for the fifteen-minute ride back down the mountain to our cars.

As our bus dropped a group of us off in the parking lot at the bottom of the hill, my stomach rumbled, which caused Charlie to raise an eyebrow.

"Hungry?"

"Yeah, so?" I said, rather abruptly. The fact was I was always hungry.

In my defense, during all the excitement, I never even took a bite from my hors d'oeuvre plate. And hours had passed since the all-you-can-eat brunch at the Biltmore Hotel in Santa Barbara. So Charlie knew to find the nearest roadside diner pronto or my mood would inevitably darken during the long drive home, and he would be the one to pay the price. After turning left for the Pacific Coast Highway scenic route south toward Los Angeles, Charlie spotted the San Simeon Beach Bar and Grill just across the road from sweeping views of the glistening, hazy blue ocean. He instinctively jerked the wheel and pulled in and parked right in front of the entrance in order to cut down on the length of time it would take to get some food into me, and thereby make his journey back home more pleasant.

"This look good to you?"

I nodded, choosing not to reply with a verbal response that could be laced with sarcasm or a slicing edge. When I was ugly from hunger, just staying quiet was my preferred method of dealing with my mood. This foresight was one of the chief reasons Charlie and I were still together.

The sea-blue paint on the one-level, dilapidated structure was fading from the sun's intense daily beating. The restaurant probably did a good business owing to the fact that it was so close to the Hearst property and all that traffic, not to mention there didn't seem to be another dining establishment within ten miles. And it was probably safe to say that this bar and grill in the tiny seaside hamlet of San Simeon, California, wasn't going to make any top ten lists in Bon Appetite magazine.

Charlie and I strolled inside, and took a table next to the window so we could gaze out at the impressive view. A hefty waitress in her late fifties, with a seen-it-all scowl, ambled up with her pad of paper and asked if we were ready to order before either of us had even opened the menu. I was fine with that. I didn't need to peruse. I was ready to eat now. One quick two-second glance at the lunch offerings, and I was raring to go.

"Club sandwich, no mayo, extra cheese, with chips and a small salad, peppercorn ranch dressing on the side, a Diet Coke, and a glass of ice water."

The waitress stared at me. I could tell she was impressed. I knew what I wanted with no annoying questions or irritating special requirements. Her day just got a little bit easier. Charlie, however, was another matter. He hemmed and hawed as his eyes scanned up and down the menu. The waitress, who was almost ready to give us a smile after my precise ordering, went back to scowling as Charlie considered his options.

"Let's see . . . what do I feel like? The omelets look really good, but I might be in the mood for some French toast. Of course, that sandwich you're getting sounds pretty good too."

Since Charlie was willing to put up with my hunger-related mood swings, it was only fair I dealt maturely with his incessant waffling when ordering in a restaurant. The waitress didn't share a bed with him like I did, so she didn't have to be patient.

"Should I just come back?"

"Yes," he said with a weak smile. "Two minutes."

As she started to walk off, I gently grabbed her arm. "But go ahead and put my order in, okay?"

She nodded with understanding, closed her pad, and huffed off into the kitchen. I stared out at the crashing waves across the road and we sat in silence for over a minute as Charlie glanced at the menu, but then he put it down on the table and said, "So what do you think? Do you believe Juan Carlos somehow poisoned Teboe?"

I took a moment to consider, but it was pointless. I knew my answer before he even asked the question. "Yes," I said emphatically.

"Me too." His tone was even more certain than mine. And as he launched into his intention to stay on top of the case, get a copy of the autopsy report, and stay in contact with the San Simeon investigation, my attention was drawn to a man who had just walked in the door. He looked vaguely familiar from the back as he approached the waitress, who had just come out of the kitchen with my Diet Coke and ice water. She pointed to a table across the room perpendicular to ours, and he sauntered over to it. Just as he slid in his seat, the waitress blocked my view as she stopped to deliver my drinks.

She gave Charlie a wary look. "Got any decisions for me yet?"

Charlie gave her an embarrassed shrug. He had been so busy discussing the Austin Teboe murder, he hadn't yet had the chance to make any.

"One more minute," he said as he cracked open the menu. "No, wait. I'll have . . ." But the poor guy just couldn't commit. Luckily, unlike a lot of gay men, he was much better committing to relationships. "No, forget it. Just give me . . . another minute."

The waitress shook her head slightly and tossed me a look, knowing I shared her contempt of indecisiveness when it came to food. And then she disappeared back into the kitchen again, clearing my obstructed view of the new diner.

My heart almost stopped. I could feel the blood draining from my face. Charlie glanced up from his menu, and instantly knew something was wrong.

"What's the matter?"

"It's him. He's here," I said.

Charlie looked across the room, and his face froze at the sight of Wendell Butterworth, my insane childhood stalker, sitting across the room from us, calmly skimming the lunch specials at the San Simeon Beach Bar and Grill.