I nodded. I'd told Ramirez about the show the weekend before, when Dana had first invited me to be at the reading. "And that's her assistant, Chico." I gestured toward the weeping angel.

  "Was he with her when she collapsed?" Ramirez asked, going into cop mode.

  I shook my head. "No. It happened while she was doing Ricky's reading. So it was just her and Ricky in the room. And the camera crew. But we all watched it." I gave him a quick version of the events.

  When I got to the part where Moira was gasping for breath, my voice hitched. Ramirez's hand made soothing circles on my back, his eyes intent on me. He didn't say anything, but he listened as if he'd have to repeat every word I said weeks later.

  "Honestly, I don't know what happened to her," I finished. "She started gasping for breath, and then she just slumped in her chair and…died." I paused. "Maybe she had a heart attack?"

  "The ME will be able to figure that out," he said. "Did she seem distressed to you? Upset or uncomfortable?"

  "N-no. not really. I mean she was eccentric for sure, but it didn't seem like she was ill or anything." I closed my eyes momentarily, saw Moira DeVine struggling to breathe, and opened them again with a shudder. "She said I had a cloudy aura," I said.

  He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "She didn't explain it. Whatever it is, she didn't want to shake my hand when we met."

  "Huh." He kissed my hair. "Well, your aura looks just fine to me."

  I leaned into him, grateful for the comfort. I always felt safe with Ramirez. He was built like Greek statuary, with a fierce protective streak that warmed my heart and a killer smile that practically melted my clothes.

  Chico let out a wail as someone covered DeVine's body with a tarp.

  I felt a sharp stab of sympathy for him. Odd as the pair might have been, it was clear he'd been devoted to her.

  Ramirez glanced over at him. "You said they arrived together?" he asked, tilting his head toward the man.

  I nodded. "He seemed to follow her like a puppy." I paused, realizing that didn't seem very kind, given the circumstance. "He seemed very devoted to her," I amended quickly.

  Ramirez nodded. "I'll give him some time to calm down before we get a statement."

  "You know, there was something that DeVine said." I bit my lip, feeling almost silly for bringing it up, but given the circumstances… "In her reading with Ricky."

  Ramirez raised one dark eyebrow at me. "Yes?"

  "Well, it was about Ricky's mother." I hesitated. "The reading kind of took an unexpected turn when DeVine 'contacted' her," I said, doing air quotes around the word.

  He shifted on his feet. "How so?"

  "She started off with the normal stuff."

  "Indulge me—what's normal psychic reading stuff?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  "You know, how proud Ricky's mom was of his career, how handsome he grew up to be. That kind of stuff."

  He nodded.

  "But then she started talking about the day Ricky's mom died," I said. "She…she said something about a gun."

  Ramirez frowned. "Did Ricky's mom die of a gunshot?"

  I shook my head. "No, that's just the thing. She died in a fire. At least, as far as Ricky knows. But Moira seemed to be insinuating that his mom had been shot that night." I paused, watching my husband's face. "Murdered."

  If Ramirez had any reaction to the idea, he hid it behind his stony cop face. "How did Ricky respond to that?" he asked.

  "Not well. I mean, who would?"

  My husband's eyes flitted to the other side of the room, where I could see Dana and Ricky huddling near a dormant fireplace, deep in conversation together. "He didn't believe her, did he?"

  I shrugged. "No. I mean, not really. Probably not, anyway."

  Ramirez shot me a questioning look.

  "I don't know if he was all in on the idea she was talking to his dead mother or not, but Ricky did ask her who was holding the gun."

  "And what did she say?"

  I shook my head again. "She didn't get a chance to say anything. Moira dropped that bombshell then said she needed a rest and she'd 'reveal all' after the break."

  "What happened after the break?"

  "As soon as she came back to the living room, and filming resumed, she collapsed. Before she could reveal anything." As much as I didn't wholeheartedly believe in DeVine's psychic powers, I couldn't deny that the timing gave me goosebumps. If I were a more superstitious person, I'd say the spirits had silenced DeVine right on cue.

  "Where was she during this break?" Ramirez asked, eyes surveying the room.

  "In the dining room." I glanced over at Ricky and Dana. "We were with Ricky in the living room, but DeVine's hair and makeup team were set up in the dining room. Chico was with her, too, I think."

  "Sounds like she was just fishing for ratings," Ramirez decided. "Trying to get a reaction out of Ricky for the cameras."

  "I guess so." I hesitated. "I could tell Ricky was shaken by it."

  The officers at the door shifted, signaling the arrival of the medical examiner, a stocky fiftysomething man in a dark gray suit sans the jacket, red tie, and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  "Duty calls," Ramirez said, inclining his head toward the man. "You gonna be okay?"

  I nodded, not totally feeling okay. "I'm fine. Do your thing."

  He gave me a quick smile before his face once again morphed into cop mode and he joined the other officers beside the body.

  The ME promptly began the choreography of the examination of the body and official pronouncement of death. Ramirez stood close, chatting with the man while the uniformed officers stood back, giving him ample room to work. The ME paid little attention to his audience as he knelt beside the tarp, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

  The initial shock of the psychic's death had not yet waned, leaving me a nearly palpable sense of loss.

  Glancing around, I noticed Dana and Ricky speaking to one of the officers now, no doubt giving an official statement. Their hands were tightly clasped, both of their faces pale. I felt a stab of sympathy that this memory would be imprinted on their new home forever, when they hadn't even had time yet to fully settle in.

  In the rush of activity, I realized I had completely lost track of Mom. Neither her nor Mrs. Rosenblatt were in the living room. Those two on the loose was never good.

  I was just about to go on a Mom hunt, when Ramirez straightened up from his chat with the ME and made purposeful strides back toward me.

  The frown on his face suddenly filled my belly with dread. "What?" I asked.

  He took my elbow and pulled me into the relative privacy of the foyer before answering in a hushed tone. "ME's done a preliminary examination of the body. Pupils are fixed and dilated, skin shows signs of pink lividity." He paused. "And there's a scent."

  I scrunched up my nose. I almost didn't want to know. "A scent of…?"

  "Almonds."

  That was not what I'd expected him to say but was far better than my imagination had conjured up. "Almonds? What does that mean?"

  "It means she did not die of a heart attack." He glanced around the room, as if making sure no one else could hear us. "Findings are more consistent with acute cyanide toxicity."

  "Cyanide…you mean she was poisoned?!"

  "Shhh." His eyes darted around again.

  "Poisoned," I whispered. "How? When?"

  He shook his head. "ME said he'd know more when he gets her back to the lab and can run some blood work. But if he's right, it would have been fairly fast acting. She would have had to ingest the toxin shortly before death. Did you see her eat anything here?"

  I shook my head. "No. All she had was a cup of…ohmigod, the tea!"

  "Tea?" Ramirez frowned.

  I nodded, my mind whirling. "Yes. She had this herbal tea blend she was drinking. She said it helped her connect with the spirit world."

  "She brought it with her?"

  I nodded again. "Chico prepared it for her." I paused. "You think that's what killed her?"

  On cue, Chico let out another protracted wail from the corner where he stood alone, sobbing into Moira DeVine's scarf.

  "I'll talk to him," Ramirez promised.

  "He said there were all kinds of herbs in the blend." I thought back, trying to recall what they were. "I don't know, like ginger and chamomile."

  "Neither of which contain cyanide."

  "But maybe there was something else in it. I mean, there are some toxic flowers, right? Maybe she ingested too much? Like an accident?" I asked, hearing the false hope in my voice. Because if it wasn't an accident, the only alternative was that someone had purposely poisoned the psychic's tea.

  Ramirez clenched his jaw, eyes going across the room to where Moira was being loaded onto a gurney. I knew him well enough to recognize when he was avoiding answering a question.

  "Look, the ME will know more after a tox screen, but…" He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "If this was not accidental, things are about to get a whole lot messier for Dana and Ricky."

  I let that sink in. A woman had been poisoned in their living room. A celebrity. Basically on camera. The tabloids would be peeing their pants with glee when this story hit.

  "What can I do?" I asked.

  "Practice the phrase 'no comment,'" Ramirez said. He inhaled deeply. "And take your mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt home."

  "Good idea." I nodded emphatically. Mrs. Rosenblatt's micro-thin filter and tabloid reporters' tenacious curiosity were two things that would not mix well. "Let me just say goodbye to Ricky and Dana."

  He gave me another quick peck on the cheek before joining his boys in blue again.

  Ricky and Dana were still going over the events of the afternoon with an officer in a starched uniform, so I made my goodbyes quickly, promising I'd stop by again in the morning and telling Dana to call me anytime—day or night—if she needed anything. She nodded stiffly, as if still trying to process what had just happened in her new home.

  My heart went out to her, but I knew there was nothing more I could do to help there. The best I could do was run damage control. I made my way through the uniforms and found both my mother and Mrs. Rosenblatt in the kitchen, sitting close together at a wooden table in the sunny breakfast nook.

  Mom looked up when I came in. "I made coffee, if you want some."

  I shook my head. "I think we should go home. There's nothing we can do here except be in the way."

  "That sounds good to me." She picked up her cup and stood. "Let me just put this in the dishwasher so Dana won't have to do it later. Come on, Dorothy."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt didn't budge. "I don't think I should leave right now. It might be useful to have a real psychic around. I could give the police some clues."

  "I'm sure they'll call you if they need you," Mom told her.

  "Did you see how she practically went into convulsions before she died?" Mrs. R said, oblivious to the way my mother cringed at the memory of it. "That was something, wasn't it? Talk about drama."

  "We should probably go," I chimed in. "I've got to get home to the twins, and—"

  "I noticed Ramirez is here," Mrs. R went on. "What did he think? Any chance the spirits offed her? Had enough of her pretending to channel them?"

  "It's early in the investigation," I said, not sure it wouldn't just add fuel to her fire to repeat Ramirez's findings. "Why don't we just let the authorities do their jobs, huh?"

  "We could do that," Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed, "or I could march in there, snatch that scarf off of Chico's neck before someone strangles him with it, and see what it tells me about the woman."

  Bad idea alert.

  "I've got a better plan," I said. "Why don't you go home to a nice hot bubble bath, and while you're soaking, ask your spirit guide, Albert, for some information."

  She considered it. "That is a better idea. And bonus, I could have a glass of wine while I do it. This coffee has harshed my mellow."

  "Your mellow could use some harshing," Mom told her. "I can't believe you want to steal a dead woman's scarf from that poor boy."

  "Doesn't he know water ruins silk?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "It's a waste of a perfectly good scarf the way he's bawling into it. I'll say one thing for Moira DeVine. She wasn't much of a psychic, but she sure knew how to accessorize."

  Mom finished loading the dishwasher, wiped down the counter, pushed in the chairs, straightened the stools, and put the remaining wine in the fridge. "There. I'm ready to go."

  What, she wasn't going to change the sheets?

  "I hope I never have another day like this one," she added as we let ourselves out. "Thank goodness it's over."

  I wasn't so sure. I had the nagging suspicion that the real fallout from Moira DeVine's death had yet to begin.

  * * *

  "Mommy!"

  Two small humans launched themselves at me the minute I walked through my front door, clinging to my legs as if I'd been gone for weeks. Their exuberance was exactly what I needed. I hugged their wriggling little pajama-clad bodies fiercely, inhaling their scents—a mixture of Play-Doh, crayons, and brownies.

  Marco, my good friend and babysitter that evening, strolled around the corner from the kitchen wearing a Kiss the Cook apron over bright yellow skinny jeans with a zebra-striped tee. His rainbow-colored hair stood up in stiff gelled spikes. A dish towel was slung over his shoulder. "Well, look who's finally home. How'd the reading go? What's Moira DeVine like? Did she—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing before his expression softened. "Wine?"

  I nodded. "Desperately." I turned the twins toward the stairs. "First let me get these two to bed."

  "I can do it by myself," Max, the male half of my gruesome twosome, informed me, puffing out his little chest with pride. "Uncle Marco told me how. He told me to brush my teeth and wash my face and moosterize."

  "Moosterize," I repeated.

  He nodded solemnly. "So I can have doughy soft skin, just like Uncle Marco."

  I couldn't suppress my smile. "I think you mean dewy, honey."

  "Dewy," he echoed. "Dewy soft skin. Mommy, what does dewy mean?"

  "It means gorgeous," Marco cut in.

  "I'm dewy," Livvie, the female half of my duo, announced. "Am I gorgeous?"

  "Every inch of you," I told her. I glanced up to see Marco grinning with pride.

  "You have to start them young, honey," he told me. "My job here is done." He looked at Max and Livvie. "Get to bed, small people. You need your beauty sleep."

  "Do not," Max insisted. "That's for girls."

  "You've been misinformed," Marco told him, squatting down. "Now give Uncle Marco a goodnight smacker." He planted a juicy kiss on both of their little cheeks and swatted them on their bottoms with the towel. "Nighty-night, my little monsters."

  "Night!" they called in chorus as I hustled them down the hall to their shared bedroom, decorated currently in a Toy Story theme, and tucked them in for the night. After they'd told me all about what they'd learned at kindergarten that day—Max had informed me I now had an obligation to provide three dozen chocolate chip cookies for a class party, and Livvie had reminded me I had to sign the permission slip for a class trip to the zoo—I gathered up the wet towels from their baths and discarded clothes from the bathroom floor and stuffed them into the hamper to be dealt with at another time.

  When I came back to the living room nearly thirty minutes later, Marco was waiting on the sofa with a bottle of rosé and two glasses. "The munchkins asleep?"

  "On their way." I dropped down with an exhausted sigh. "Thanks for watching them, by the way."

  "Are you kidding? It's my pleasure. I was born to be Auntie Marco. Oh, by the way." He poured me a glass and handed it over. "There might be the teensiest possibility that someday when you pull out the stove for cleaning, you'll find a few petrified formerly frozen French fries under there."

  "Food fight victims?" I asked, knowing my twins well.

  He nodded. "I negotiated a truce before they could start in on the peas."

  I took a sip of wine, closing my eyes with pleasure. "Do people actually do that? Clean behind the stove?"

  "I hear some do." He appraised me silently. "I recognize that look. Talk to me, darling. Tell me I'm wrong."

  "I wish I could. Today was a nightmare." I filled him in on the disastrous Hollywood Psychic taping and the death and possible poisoning of Moira DeVine. Along with the dramatic reading that had preceded it. As I talked, Marco's heavily lined eyes grew wider and wider.

  When I was finished, he topped off both our glasses and sat back. "You know I'm totally coming with you to see Dana tomorrow, right?"

  I nodded. "I figured as much."

  "How's our girl doing?"

  "As well as can be expected under the circumstances." I thought about it. "At least she and Ricky are able to be together to help each other through this. and he's not headed off to some movie set like he usually is."

  "Amen to that." Marco sipped from his wineglass.

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text. I picked it up off the coffee table. Ramirez, letting me know he was going to be late and not to wait up for him. Not entirely unexpected. I shot back a quick response with a couple of heart emojis.

  "Poor Ricky," Marco commented. "Imagine hearing something like that so many years after he lost his mama. I'm sure he'd come to terms with growing up without her, and now this."

  "I'm pretty sure DeVine was just trying to stir up drama."

  "Mayyyyyybe," Marco said drawing out the word. "But it's interesting timing."

  I bit my lip. I'd had much the same thought.

  "I mean," Marco went on. "She drops the bombshell that Mommy was murdered right before she, herself, is killed."

  "We don't know that she was intentionally killed," I hedged.

  Marco shook his head at me. "Honey, I've heard of a lot of weird herbal tea ingredients, but cyanide ain't one of them." He tsked his tongue. "If that tea killed her, it's because someone spiked it."

  I thought back to her assistant who'd served her the deadly brew. "I don't know. The only people there were us and the crew. And her assistant, Chico."