I could empathize with her desperation, having been the target of the tag team of Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt many a time before myself. I helped myself to a cookie and changed the topic. "How's the show going, Dana?" Last year, she'd landed the part of a booty-kicking PI in a female-forward reboot of the '70s Charlie's Angels series, Charlotte's Angels. Filming had recently begun on the second season.

  She flashed a grateful smile. "Really well. The cast is great, and the director is so easy to work with." She glanced at the veggies and fruit then took a cookie herself. "That's not always the case, as you know."

  "Oh, I know." I shuddered, thinking of the movie she'd filmed in Moose Haven, Saskatchewan with a tyrannical director who had wound up dead in his trailer. But that was a whole other story.

  "My stunt double is incredible," Dana added. "She used to be a gymnast or something. Anyway, when you see my character, Charlotte Benson, doing split jumps to kick two bad guys in the head at the same time, needless to say, it's not me. I'm actually standing off-stage watching her in awe."

  "Split jumps," Mrs. Rosenblatt mused, chewing on another cookie. "Those could come in handy. Maybe she could teach me how to do that."

  "Oh, I…" Dana bit her lip. "I'll ask her."

  "In the meantime, I think I'll buy some of those Lululemon yoga pants," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, delighted. "You need the right clothes for the job. I always say—"

  "Shhh." Mom pointed. "Look, they're getting started."

  We turned our attention to the square monitor on the counter, where Moira DeVine was settling into an armchair while hair and makeup people orbited her like satellites, primping and fluffing.

  Chico entered from her left, carrying a mug with little tendrils of steam curling upward. "Your special blend, m'lady." He placed it carefully at her side and stepped back, arms in parade rest.

  "Did you see that?" Mom asked reverentially. "He's so devoted to her."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt rolled her eyes. "Did you hear that? Who does he think she is? The Queen Mother?"

  Moira held the mug with both hands, blew on it, and took a sip. "Ugh." Her face twisted. "This is much too hot. And it's bitter."

  "I'll fix you another," Chico offered as Ricky took his seat. The hair and makeup crew approached him, did a token nose powder and ran a comb once over his hair, and moved away again.

  "There's no time for that. We're taping in two minutes." Moira looked at Ricky. "Do you have any of your mother's possessions?"

  He placed a silver brooch and a perfume bottle on the table between them.

  "Chanel." Moira nodded approvingly. "She had good taste."

  "He saved his mom's perfume?" I asked, curious.

  Dana nodded. "They found it in her room after the fire. He wanted to have something of hers to remember her by."

  "Rolling," the director called out.

  "What a lovely—" Moira started to say.

  "And action!" the director called.

  Immediately the psychic gripped the arms of her chair, arched her back, closed her eyes, and tossed her head side to side. "I feel spirit coming over me. I give myself up to spirit."

  "Is she serious with this?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked with a frown.

  "Shhh." Mom leaned forward, entranced. "This is how she makes the connection."

  "She does this every time?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "I hope she has a good chiropractor on the payroll."

  "What do you mean, after the fire?" I asked Dana quietly. "I didn't realize Ricky lost his mother in a fire."

  She nodded. "When he was five. He and his dad went to the movies, and his mother, Beth, was home alone, asleep in the bedroom, and that wing of the house caught fire. They weren't able to put it out in time to save her."

  My eyes prickled with unshed tears. "That's awful."

  "I know. Ricky honestly remembers very little about her," Dana said. "His father remarried soon after Beth's death, and he was raised by his stepmother. In that same house, actually. His dad's an architect, and he repaired the damage."

  "I see a lovely dark-haired woman," Moira DeVine intoned. "With dark eyes. She's showing me bees. Is there someone with a connection to bees who might be coming through for you?"

  "Bees?" Ricky repeated. "Not that I know of."

  "The bees could be a symbol," Moira backtracked. "Spirit speaks to me in symbols. Perhaps the letter B? Do you know a dark-haired woman with a name starting with B who's passed?"

  "My mother." Ricky sounded impressed. "Her name was—"

  "Bonnie," Moira said with a nod.

  "No, it—"

  "Brenda."

  "Beth," he said.

  "Yes!" She practically pumped her fist in triumph. "I told you it had to do with bees."

  "Brother," Mrs. Rosenblatt muttered.

  "She's so proud of you," Moira went on. "She's saying you grew up to be so handsome, and she's very proud of your acting career."

  "Oh, come on," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "What mother wouldn't say that?"

  "Shhh." My mother laid a finger against her lips. "We'll miss something!"

  Ricky watched the psychic with rapt attention. I couldn't tell if he believed what he was hearing or was playing it up for the camera. Or possibly a little of both. Even a doubter might be swayed with a chance to talk to the mother he'd lost so young.

  "She's asking if you remember a red Mustang," Moira went on. "She loved that car."

  Dana gasped.

  "She hated it," Ricky said. "My dad said she made him sell it."

  Moira tipped her head sideways. "Yes. That's right, she hated that car. Strong emotions are coming through."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt's bangles jingled when she put both hands on her waist. "Is anyone actually buying this?"

  "Shhhhhhh!" Mom waved her off.

  "Guess so," Mrs. Rosenblatt muttered.

  I bit my lip to hide a smile.

  "Your mother says you'll get the part you desire," Moira said. "But you must be patient." She looked off into the middle distance with a faint smile. "Although she says patience has never been your strong suit."

  Ricky's eyes welled with tears. He sniffled. "It's true."

  "There's the Nicholas Sparks part," Mrs. R said. "He's more believable than she is, I'll give him that."

  "He's not being believable," Dana whispered. "He's emotional." She frowned at the monitor, and I could tell how badly she wished she could be in the room holding his hand right then.

  "You've brought with you some personal effects of your mother's." Moira reached for the brooch. "May I?" She picked it up without waiting for a response, holding it in one palm and stroking it gently with her fingertips so that it remained in sight for the viewers. Suddenly she jerked her fingers away. "Oh! I…"

  "What is it?" Ricky asked.

  Moira stared down at the brooch. "She showed me…she showed me fire. A terrible fire." She swallowed hard. "She says she died in that fire."

  Ricky sat forward. "She did. Does she know how it started? Can you ask her how it started?"

  "This is so…" Moira quickly put the brooch down again and took up the perfume bottle instead, holding it between both palms. Breathing deeply, an expression of calm came over her. "Your mother loved this scent," she whispered. "She wore it often. She…" She froze abruptly.

  "What?" Ricky leaned forward. "What is it?"

  A dark look swept over her features. "Why are you here?" she asked, eyes unfocused and wide.

  "M-me?" Ricky looked confused.

  But Moira didn't answer, looking as if in some sort of trance. "You're not supposed to be here. You can't do this. You can't—" She drew in a sharp breath, and her eyes grew wider with fear. "Where did you get that gun?"

  "Gun?" Dana stood bolt upright at the counter, her face bloodless. "What is she talking about?"

  "I-is someone there with my mom?" Ricky asked, a frown etched on his features. "Is someone pointing a gun at her?"

  "Please!" Moira pleaded with some unknown person. "No! Don't shoot!"

  Mom's hand flew to her mouth. Even Mrs. Rosenblatt looked enthralled.

  Ricky shot to his feet, startling the cameraman, whose shot jerked upward awkwardly to keep him in the frame. "What are you saying? What gun? Who was shot?"

  The camera panned down to show Moira DeVine's startled expression as she blinked rapidly up at him, ostensibly trying to gather herself. "What? I don't…" She swallowed and gave a slight head shake.

  "Did someone shoot my mother?" Ricky asked, his voice holding an edge to it.

  The psychic steeled herself. "We'll show more of this extraordinarily emotional session after the break," she said, speaking directly into the camera.

  "We're out," the director announced.

  "Oh, my." Moira pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "I need a moment to recuperate. Spirit takes so much out of me." She shaded her eyes to look toward the assembled crew. "That was quite a dramatic moment, don't you think, Brock?"

  Without looking over from his conversation, the director gave her a thumbs up.

  "Every session should have a cliffhanger like that," she mused. "The ratings would go right through the roof. Maybe we should consider—"

  "My mother," Ricky repeated, still looking shocked. "What happened to my mother?"

  Chico appeared behind DeVine. "They're waiting in the dining room to refresh your makeup, Mizz DeVine. You have a teensy little shine to your nose."

  Moira seemed annoyed at the interruption, pushing herself up with a huff. "Don't forget my tea," she flung over her shoulder.

  Chico obediently snatched up the mug and scurried after her.

  Ricky dropped back into his seat, looking stunned.

  Without a word, Dana rushed out of the kitchen.

  Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt followed right behind her. I poured a glass of cold water for Ricky and joined them.

  "Don't you worry," Mrs. Rosenblatt was telling him as I entered the room. "Don't believe a thing she says. It's all fake. Smoke and mirrors."

  I handed the glass to Ricky, who took a small sip. "But she knew about my dad's Mustang."

  We all glanced at Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  She shrugged. "Lucky guess?"

  "And she knew I've never been long on patience," he added.

  "That wasn't exactly a stretch," I said gently. "Kids want what they want, when they want it." I should know. I had two of them. Twins, to be exact, and they were currently in the kindergartener phase where their patience was even shorter than their pudgy little legs.

  He nodded but still looked unconvinced.

  "Well, I think it's all true," Mom announced. "Moira DeVine wouldn't fake something like that. How would she know those things if she wasn't really channeling his mother?"

  "He's a celebrity," I pointed out. "A public figure. He's got an agent, and social media, and probably got a Wikipedia page that would tell someone whatever they wanted to know." I glanced at Dana. "Right?"

  "Yeah," she said doubtfully. "Right." She took her husband's hand. "Besides, your mom wasn't shot. She died in a fire. Right?"

  Ricky licked his lips. "Yeah. I mean, that's what everyone has always said."

  "But she could have been shot first," Mom protested. "Don't they do that on those crime shows? Shoot someone then burn the body to cover up the murder?"

  "Mom," I said softly, watching Ricky flinch at the term body being applied to his mother.

  Mom must have seen it too. "Sorry," she said, frowning with sympathy. "But it could be possible."

  "Could it?" Dana asked. She nibbled her lower lip, looking uncertain. "I mean, has your dad or anyone ever hinted that there might have been more to your mom's death? That it could have been…murder?" she said softly.

  Ricky shook his head. "No. Of course not. Why would anyone want to shoot my mom?"

  "If she really had been shot," I reasoned, "the police surely would have found evidence of it." Again, a subject I knew about, thanks to my husband's profession. I was married to an LAPD homicide detective, and I knew for a fact there was no way he'd mistake a homicide for an accident. I had to put the same faith in his colleagues of the previous generation as well.

  "Maddie's right," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "DeVine is just ginning up drama for the cameras. You heard her gloating about cliffhangers and ratings."

  "Sure," Ricky said uncertainly. "But I've got to tell you, she really threw me." He met Dana's eyes. "Do you think I should go on with the taping?"

  Before she could answer, Moira DeVine swept back into the room, her nose powdered and her errant curl sprayed back into place. "Break time's over," she announced, as if she were a grade school teacher shepherding straggling students off the playground.

  "Clear the room," Chico ordered, making shooing motions. "Off you go now."

  I couldn't be sure about Moira DeVine's prowess as a medium, but I was positive that I'd never seen two more oblivious people. I shot a look at Ricky, unsure if we should do as told. But he gave Dana a silent nod, taking a deep breath and straightening up in his chair.

  Dana gave his cheek a quick peck before we all reluctantly traipsed back to the kitchen.

  "It's got to be all for show, right?" Dana asked, refilling her wineglass with slightly shaky hands.

  I nodded. "Absolutely. Look, if his mom had actually been shot, an autopsy would have shown that. DeVine is just looking for drama."

  "Was there an autopsy?" my mom asked Dana.

  "I-I don't know." She took a large sip from her wineglass. "Honestly, Ricky's never talked about it much. He was so young when it all happened."

  We turned our eyes to his image on the monitor. While he had mostly composed himself, I could see his movie star confidence from a moment ago was lacking.

  "I wonder if he should have called this off," Dana mumbled.

  "Oh no." Mom shook her head. "No, we should definitely let Moira go on. Don't you want to know who shot Beth? We need details."

  I had a feeling they were more figments than details, but I let it go as the lighting guy on the monitor gave the all clear to reset.

  We watched Moira DeVine drain the last of her special tea blend before thrusting the empty mug into Chico's waiting hands. "Ready, Brock?"

  Another thumbs-up from the silent director, and she immediately launched into her pre-trance calisthenics routine, thrashing about as if she were in an Exorcist audition.

  "Oh, yeah." Mrs. Rosenblatt's tone was tinder dry. "She's legit."

  "Shhh," my mother cautioned for the gazillionth time. "We want to hear what she has to say next."

  But it was Ricky who spoke first, his voice grim. "Tell me who was with my mother when she died. Who fired the gun?"

  "All questions will be answered," Moira assured him. "First I need a moment to connect with spirit. Sometimes—" Her head jerked side to side, her mouth falling open.

  "That reminds me," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I want fish for dinner."

  I watched the display on the monitor. "She didn't do this the first time," I said. "Do you think she's playing it up for—" I stopped, staring hard as Moira's hands flew to her throat.

  Her eyes grew wide.

  No sound came from her lips, though her skin went a stark ashen color.

  She reached one hand up toward the ceiling, as if beseeching someone above to help.

  Then she crumpled like a rag doll, arms dropping limply to her sides as her head lolled down toward her chest.

  "Ohmigod!" Mom shouted.

  "Is she okay?" Mrs. R said with a hiccup.

  "I'll call an ambulance," Dana said immediately, reaching for her phone.

  I watched Ricky and the crew descend upon DeVine's still form on the monitor, before Dana, Mom, Mrs. R, and I all rushed through the doorway toward the living room to help.

  But I could tell from the somber looks on the crew's faces, as soon as we awkwardly fumbled into the room en masse, that there would be no helping Moira DeVine.

  Moira DeVine was dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next few minutes were a blur of frenzied motion—Dana screaming into her phone at the 9-1-1 operator, Brock the director performing CPR in vain on the limp woman, Ricky opening the front door as sounds of sirens approached, and Chico wailing at the top of his lungs at the unfairness of "one so perfect being taken so young."

  Chico was still huddled weeping over Moira DeVine's lifeless body when EMTs arrived on the scene, followed quickly by the police. Amidst the sea of blue uniforms, I spotted a familiar figure. One whose eyes locked on mine and registered a look of concern that was also all too familiar. It simultaneously said are you okay? while also adding in what the heck is my wife doing at another murder scene?!

  My husband, Detective Jack Ramirez, had been a member of the LAPD long before he'd met me. In fact, that's how we'd actually first crossed paths—when he'd been investigating an embezzlement case and my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend had been his number one suspect. Ramirez was tall, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark tattoo of a black panther that curled around his right bicep. When I'd first met him, he hadn't been very happy to have a nosy blonde butting into his case, and over the years that sentiment had not improved. The not-butting-into-his-cases part. The rest of our marriage was actually pretty darn good. Two kids, kinda crazy work schedules, but according to the latest poll in Glamour, we had a "better than average" sex life, so I couldn't complain.

  If only my husband couldn't complain too.

  "It happened again" was the first thing he said to me once he crossed the room that was quickly filling with law enforcement. "What is it with you and dead bodies?"

  "Hi, honey. I'm fine, thanks for asking," I told him.

  He shook his head but pulled me into a long hug, strong arms encircling me as his hands rubbed my back. "You okay, kid?" he whispered into my hair.

  I nodded, taking fortification from the woodsy scent of his aftershave. "Better than Moira DeVine."

  Ramirez pulled back, a look of concern still in his eyes. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Maybe," I said, being totally honest. "I-I don't really know what happened. She just sort of…collapsed."

  He glanced toward the living room, where the EMTs were packing up their things—their role in all of this having been over before they even arrived. "Moira DeVine. That's the psychic Ricky was taping a show with today?"