"What would Robert have done with the money that he didn't want anyone to know about?" Dana pressed.

  Uncle Bart grinned. "You remember who he was working with, don't you?"

  Dana's mouth snapped shut.

  "Uh-huh." Bart nodded sagely. "He could have got himself in trouble with the Riccis. Maybe he wanted to use the money to buy himself out of his contract with them."

  That didn't sound altogether out of the question. Robert had seemed uncomfortable when we'd asked why he'd left the job. "Go on," I urged him.

  "Well, let's say Robert takes the money out. My sister realizes the money's gone, it ticks her off, and she has it out with Robert the second he walks in the door."

  "Robert did say they argued about it when he found out," I mused.

  "See?" Uncle Bart splayed his hands wide. "But maybe it was my sister who did the finding out that spurred the argument. Heck, maybe the fight even got physical. Maybe he gives her a little shove, and she winds up falling and hitting her head. Completely accidental, mind you."

  Dana grabbed his arm to force him to stop. "Are you accusing my father-in-law of killing his wife and then setting a fire to cover it up?"

  "Not accusing," Uncle Bart said. "Hypothesizing. It's a theory."

  "Well, I hate your theory," Dana said hotly.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt glanced over at us, curious. Bart lifted the mimosas in a toast to her.

  "Tell me that it doesn't all fit neatly," Uncle Bart pressed.

  He was right. It really did. However, it was also a great potential diversion away from Uncle Bart if he'd been the one to kill his sister and take the money. I had to give him credit for wiliness. He seemed to know just what buttons to push to shape a situation for his own benefit.

  But maybe two could play that game.

  I waited until he'd sat back down at the table before I turned to him. "Let me ask you something, Bart. Did you own a gun at the time of your sister's death?"

  The man didn't flinch. "Of course I did. I owed money to loan sharks." He smirked. "I slept with one eye open back then, with a gun under my pillow and a baseball bat in the closet. You can't be too careful with those people."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt rested her chin on her fist. "That sounds so exciting!"

  Oh, brother.

  "It sounds dangerous to me," I said bluntly.

  Uncle Bart waved aside the comment. "Look, I'm not gonna pretend I haven't run a con or two in my wilder days. But that was a long time ago. When I was young. Stupid."

  "Armed," I pointed out.

  He shrugged. "So I haven't lived a monk's life. It was in the tarot cards for me to have some excitement, and I've had my share." He winked at Mrs. Rosenblatt. She actually blushed.

  If you considered grifting for a living, taking advantage of your own sister, checking in and out of a jail cell as excitement, then he was right.

  Wait.

  "What do you mean, it was in the cards for you?" I asked.

  He shifted in his seat. "What's that?"

  I took a step to the left, directly into his line of sight. "You said it was in the cards for you to have an exciting life."

  "Oh. That's just an expression. You know, like you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Same difference."

  "In the tarot cards is not an expression," I persisted, something suddenly clicking. "You mentioned before that you were arrested in Burbank before you got sober. When was this?"

  He frowned at my seeming change of subject. "Ten years ago. Why?"

  "Because," I said, missing pieces falling into place, "that's exactly where and when Dora the Palm Reader was running her scam on unsuspecting older ladies."

  "Who?" Dana asked.

  But I could tell Uncle Bart knew the name. His skin had gone ashen, and all pretense at a charming smile had dropped off his face.

  "Martha Dent," I explained. "Also known as Moira DeVine."

  Mrs. R gasped. "Wait—are you saying Bart here knew Moira?" She turned a pair of wide, heavily lined eyes on him.

  Uncle Bart sucked in a deep breath. Then nodded slowly. "Yes, I knew her."

  "You lied!" Dana accused.

  "No." He shook his head, with more vigor this time. "I never said I didn't know Moira DeVine. I just didn't offer up that I knew her."

  "But you did know her. You were both running a con together. Getting women to change their wills. I'm guessing in the favor of the tall, dark, and handsome man that 'Dora' told them they were destined to be with?"

  The corner of his lips curled into a self-deprecating smile. "It was a great scheme."

  Mrs. R harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest.

  "Until it wasn't," I added. "You got caught and went to jail, but Dora simply skipped town and changed her name."

  "Look, I haven't seen Dora since then. Why would I? I did my time, and we both went straight after that."

  Not completely. While what Moira had been running wasn't actually illegal, scamming celebrities into believing she was communicating with their departed loved ones by regurgitating information she'd acquired at fair market value wasn't exactly the study of sainthood.

  "Moira never contacted you after you were arrested?" I pressed.

  Uncle Bart shook his head.

  "And you never looked her up once you knew she was the 'psychic to the stars'?"

  More shaking. "I had no reason to. I told you, I've been a good boy these past ten years. I left that life behind me."

  "But Moira didn't. And she must have known you were Ricky's uncle," Dana pressed. "That Beth was your sister."

  "No. I never talked about Beth to Dora. Moira. Whatever her name was."

  "Martha Dent," I supplied.

  Mrs. R snorted.

  "So she didn't try to get information from you before Ricky's reading?" Dana asked.

  He shook his head vehemently. "I haven't seen her in ages," he promised us. He turned to Mrs. R. "And we were just business partners back then. That's it."

  Mrs. R looked unconvinced.

  That made two of us.

  Uncle Bart was an admitted conman who trafficked in lies. I doubted that we could trust anything he said. He'd known both dead women. And he knew how Moira/Dora/Martha worked her scams—if he'd had any inkling she was reading Ricky, he must have known she'd be digging up details about Beth's death to use on the show. He could have planned to kill her before she could spill his secret, a secret he'd kept for decades. It wouldn't have been hard for him to send us on a wild goose chase by pointing the finger at Robert and the Riccis. In fact, he would have been adhering to the conman playbook, incapable of honesty even in the face of murder.

  Especially then.

  A ringtone chimed in the space. Automatically, all of us checked our screens.

  "That's me," Dana announced. She frowned at the readout. "I need to take this." She swiped it on and stepped away to take the call.

  "Are we done here?" Uncle Bart asked me. "Because I'd like to get back to this lovely lady if I may?"

  Mrs. Rosenblatt looked in a far less jovial mood than she'd been when we walked up, her penciled-in brows pulled down in a frown, her arms still crossed over her ample bosoms. I almost didn't want to leave her there with Bart, worried that I could be abandoning her with a potential murderer.

  Then again, there wasn't a whole lot he would dare do in the game room of the senior's rec center under Sam the quasi-bartender's watchful eyes.

  I mumbled some goodbyes to them both, and told Mrs. R to call me later, before I caught up with Dana and Marco just outside the doors. Marco was jiggling Jerry up and down like a baby in his carrier, and Dana was just ending her call.

  She looked up when she saw me, her face pale and her eyes watery. "That was Lillian."

  "What did she say?" I asked, quickly at her side.

  Dana licked her lips. "The police were just there, talking about exhuming Beth's body."

  "How did she take that news?" Marco asked.

  "Not well." Dana shook her head. "Awful, in fact. She and Robert are both livid about it, and they're furious with Ricky. Lillian said she can't let Ricky do that."

  "You'd think they'd want definitive answers after all these years," I murmured.

  "You'd think," Dana agreed. "She said it's all too upsetting for Robert."

  "Or," said Marco, "is she upset at the idea the police will find evidence that she murdered Beth."

  Dana frowned. "I hate even thinking this way." She shook her head. "Anyway, she said they plan to do everything they can to stop it."

  Marco put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, hun. Is there anything we can do?"

  "I need to get home to Ricky before this explodes in his face," Dana said. "Would you mind?"

  Marco shook his head. "I've got to get to work anyway."

  "Not with that little guy you aren't—" I froze midsentence as I looked down at the baby carrier. Which was suddenly empty. "Where's Jerome?" I demanded.

  Marco looked down. Then up, panic clear in his eyes. "Oh no. He must have slipped away in all the commotion."

  Dana's head whipped left and right. "Where could he have gone?"

  "He did like the pool the other day…" Marco trailed off as he turned to his right. Then his gaze landed on a something just behind us. "Oh, no." He gasped and lowered his eyes.

  "What?" I asked, spinning around.

  Marco pointed with a shaking finger. "He's right there."

  There was the driver's seat of my minivan. Sitting tall with both hands on the wheel, Jerome grinned as if he was proud of himself.

  "How did he get in there?" I yelled. "Get him out now!"

  "Don't upset him," Marco implored. "You wouldn't like him when he's upset."

  "I don't like him now," I shot back. I reached for the door handle. Which didn't budge. "He locked the door?" I screeched.

  "It's no problem," Marco said. "You have your keys, right? Just unlock it, and I'll get him out. You don't even have to touch him."

  Right. I had the keys. Keeping one narrowed eye on Jerome, I fished around in my bag for them. Only I came up empty. "They were right here…" I trailed off as I saw Jerome jangling my key ring through the window.

  "He stole my keys!"

  "Bad boy, Jerome," Marco said, waggling a finger at him through the glass. "That's a no-no."

  "That's a misdemeanor," I shouted back. "He's a tip thief and a pickpocket!"

  "How are we going to get him out of there?" Dana asked.

  "Come on, little man. Unlock the doors," Marco guided softly. "Just push the little button." Marco pointed a finger down at the buttons on the driver's side door.

  Jerome cocked his head at Marco. Then pushed a different button.

  My car engine roared to life.

  "Marco!" I shouted, feeling my blood pressure raise about fifty points. "He's trying to steal my car!"

  Marco shook his head and clucked his tongue. "He's not stealing your car. He can't reach the pedals."

  "I'll press charges," I threatened. "That hairy little monster will go to jail! Grand theft auto!"

  Marco bit his lip, looking concerned. "Okay, okay. Settle down. I'll get him out."

  Settling down was the last thing I was about to do with a monkey at the wheel of my car. But I seethed silently as I let Dana and Marco gently try to talk Jerome through unlocking the door. As it turned out, the monkey must have realized he was, in fact, too short to reach the pedals, as after a couple tense minutes, he finally relinquished his position and pushed the right button to unlock the car door.

  "There," Marco said, heaving a sigh of relief. "He listened. See? What a good boy."

  I took a closer look at my seat as Marco opened the door and Jerry jumped out. "He's not a good boy," I said through clenched teeth. "He's a dead monkey. He peed in my car again!"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Marco snatched my keys, handed them to me, and wisely whisked Jerome out of my reach. His nose was crinkled when he turned to face me. "Maddie, I'm so sorry. I'll pay for the cleaning."

  I gestured wildly at the van. "That's great, but how am I supposed to drive it now? It smells like monkey pee and it's wet!"

  "I've got an old towel in my trunk," Dana offered, turning to her Tesla.

  Marco scurried away, clutching tightly to a grinning Jerome, and tucked himself into Dana's car.

  Minutes later, I was perched on the very edge of my semidry seat on my way to the car wash, trying to ignore the pungent scent of Jerome's visit. I pulled into the nearest car wash Google Maps could find and splurged on the Triple A Black Diamond Imperial Detailing package. I watched through the viewing window as a team of employees in white coveralls that reminded me of hazmat suits buzzed around the minivan. I couldn't help but hear their laughter as they worked. I'd probably given them happy hour fodder for the next six months.

  Thirty minutes later, I collected the minivan from a smirking clerk and climbed back into the driver's seat, nearly choking on cleaning fumes and multiple pine-scented deodorizers hanging in a cluster from my rearview mirror. Breathing shallowly, I drove home, determined to spend at least a few hours this week working on my spring line.

  Which I did, all while trying not to think about Beth, Moira, Dana, and Ricky and nibbling on leftover Chinese takeout. While my mind might have been elsewhere, at least my fingers were at work, making a somewhat respectable dent in the backlog that had piled up over the last few days.

  I was just about to call it quits, when my phone rang, Dana's number lighting up my screen.

  "Maddie, I need to talk to you," Dana said as soon as I picked up. Her voice thick with tears.

  I pushed the sketch pad away, my heart in my throat. "What is it?"

  She took in a quivering breath. "I confessed to Ricky about going to see Uncle Bart this morning."

  I cringed in anticipation.

  "He flew off the handle," she went on in a shaking voice. "I can't remember when I've seen him so angry. Maddie, I'm worried he may never forgive me for not having the same blind faith in his parents that he does. But I'm only trying to see things objectively."

  "I understand," I said. "And Ricky will, too. You have to give him time to calm down. He's had a lot thrown at him lately, none of it good. That would rattle anyone."

  "I guess so." She sniffed. "I only wish—hey! Knock that off!"

  I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

  "It's Jerome. I agreed to monkey sit while Marco's at the salon. Remind me never to do that again."

  "You did see him pee in my car, right? Twice."

  "Marco assured me he's potty trained," she said uncertainly.

  I envisioned their house. "Did you monkey-proof the place?"

  "I didn't have time," she admitted. "And he already got into Ricky's shower gel. On the plus side, he smells like cedarwood instead of monkey now."

  "Nice." Wish I could say the same for my minivan.

  "Yeah. It is. Hold on." I heard her yell "Jerome! Don't make me come over there!" Then she was back. "Sorry about that." She was quiet for a moment. "What did you think about what Uncle Bart had to say this morning?"

  "You mean his theory about the money?" I shook my head. "While I don't trust anything that comes out of that guy's mouth, the truth is somebody had to have taken it."

  "So you think it could have been Robert?" Her voice sounded so sad.

  "I don't know," I said honestly. "It could have easily been Bart himself."

  "So either Ricky's dad or his uncle. Fab," Dana said on a sigh.

  "You know, there is one thing that's still been bothering me," I told her.

  "What's that?"

  "The gunshot." I looked out the front window at the fading sunlight reflecting off my neighbor's garden gnomes. "Moira was very specific about Beth having been shot."

  "Very!" Dana agreed.

  "But nothing we've found so far has had any mention of a shooting. So where did she get that idea?"

  Dana was quiet a moment. "The killer?"

  I frowned. "I'm having a hard time seeing any of our suspects confessing that to Moira."

  "Well, it's possible—no! Give. Me. That." Dana gave an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, he's like a naughty child. You're a mother. What do I do to distract him?"

  "Turn on the TV," I suggested. "Kids like cartoons. Don't let him have the remote, though."

  Seconds later I heard SpongeBob SquarePants in the background then an inquisitive "Screee?" from Jerome.

  "I don't believe it," she said. "It actually works! He sat right down in front of the TV!" She paused. "What were you saying?"

  "The gunshot," I reminded her. "Where did Moira get that idea?"

  "Right. Well, maybe the killer didn't exactly confess but they let something slip?"

  "Or she just made it up," I said.

  "Or that." The sad note was back in Dana's voice. "Do you think we'll ever know what really happened to Ricky's mom?"

  I honestly wasn't sure. So far all it felt like we were doing was running in circles. The more I learned, the more questions I had. "Officer Willis visited me this morning," I told her, quickly filling her in on the brief visit. "He almost sounded like he was admitting he hadn't been thorough enough in investigating Beth's death."

  "Well, I can see why he might have missed something," Dana added. "I mean, it sounds like someone tried hard to cover their tracks."

  I nodded in the empty room. "I wonder…"

  "What?" Dana asked.

  "Well, just that with the fire and Willis convinced it was a random arsonist, I wonder if anyone ever actually looked for evidence of a murder in the house."

  "Like what kind of evidence?" Dana asked.

  I thought back to Moira's original assertions. "Like a bullet hole for one."

  "But surely Robert would have noticed that when he started to repair the house after the fire—" Dana paused, midthought, realization hitting her. "Oh."

  "If he wasn't the one who put it there in the first place," I said gently, voicing her thoughts.

  "Or Lillian," Dana agreed reluctantly. "And he wanted to protect her."

  We were silent for a few seconds, while Squidward ranted in the background.

  "You know, the house is empty right now," Dana said finally. "Robert and Lillian moved out the last of their things yesterday."