Marco nodded. "My money's on the assistant, then."

  "He seemed genuinely devastated."

  "Sure, and she seemed genuinely psychic." He shot me a look.

  I shook my head. "I don't know."

  "Look, maybe the killer—"

  "If there was an intentional killing."

  He rolled his eyes at me. "Maybe the killer wasn't even there. He could have spiked the tea leaves earlier and just waited for her to drink it up."

  I shook my head. "All I know is that the whole thing was upsetting for everyone. Especially for Ricky. Even if it's not true about his mom."

  "Tell me something." Marco swirled his wineglass and took a sip. "What did you think of the Hollywood Psychic? Was Madam DeVine everything you hear?"

  "Depends on what you hear. She wasn't exactly warm and friendly. And she was a bit of a diva." To put it mildly.

  "I can relate," Marco said with an arched eyebrow.

  I chuckled. "I hate to speak ill of the dead, but she seemed pretty happy with herself."

  "And it seems like someone else was not so happy with her," Marco pointed out.

  I looked down into my wineglass. The events of the day suddenly caught up to me, leaving me bone-weary. I hid a yawn behind my hand.

  "Have you eaten anything?" Marco demanded.

  "I grazed," I admitted. "Nothing substantial."

  "Okay, then." He stood, holding out his hand. "You come with me, and I'll whip up something."

  "You don't have to cook for me," I protested.

  "I wasn't planning to." He picked up the takeout menu lying on the counter. "What'll it be? Caesar salad? Grilled salmon?"

  "You know what?" I shook my head. "I think I'll just have some toast and call it a day."

  "Oh, sweetie." He tilted his head. "You do look a bit done in. Why don't you take a nice glass of wine into a hot bath, relax for a little while. I'll be here about ten o'clock in the morning."

  "Make it eight o'clock," I said. "The twins have school tomorrow. And thanks again for watching them for me."

  "Anytime." He dropped the menu into a drawer and slid it shut. "They're adorbs, Maddie."

  "They are, aren't they?" I smiled again. "I thought if I pointed that out, I'd just be the doting mom. But since you brought it up…"

  "Take it from me. Marco knows adorbs." He kissed my cheek. "See you in the morning. Give that hunk of a husband of yours my regards."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, Marco showed up at eight o'clock sharp, as expected.

  The pair of ladies flanking him when I opened the door was a little more unexpected.

  Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  Marco had dressed down for the occasion in electric blue leather pants and a white silk T-shirt. And heels. Three-inch ones. Next to him, Mom seemed practically subdued in her high waisted acid washed jeans, Rolling Stones T-shirt with a giant tongue on it, and hoop earrings in the same neon blue as her eye shadow. Mrs. Rosenblatt capped off the trio in a colorful floral muumuu accessorized with chunky Caribbean inspired jewelry. Two parrots hung from her ears, and her hair was held up with clips that looked like banana leaves.

  I blinked, feeling like someone should be yelling "trick or treat" any second.

  "Good morning?" I said, though it sounded like more of a question.

  "Sorry, they wouldn't take no for an answer," Marco said, scrunching up his cute button nose as they stepped inside.

  "Well, of course we wouldn't," Mom said, shaking her head. "As soon as Marco told me why he was going to be late to the salon, we knew you needed us. How are you, honey? Did you get any sleep? Have you been eating? Did you take your vitamins?"

  "Fine, no, yes, and do Flintstones count?" I answered as I led the way back to the kitchen, where I'd been busy cleaning up the twins' breakfast mayhem. The truce had not lasted the night, and they'd staged round two of their epic battle that morning, with Kix as the artillery.

  "It was all over the news last night," Mrs. R said. "They just kept showing Ricky and Dana's house."

  "I saw," I admitted. As beat as I'd been the night before, I'd been unable to resist watching the late news to see just how bad the press was. While few details of DeVine's death had been reported yet, the story had been on every channel. Along with the fact that she'd died at the home of America's Hunky Heartthrob and the star of Charlotte's Angels.

  "Channel Two said foul play was suspected," Mom added. "Was foul play suspected?"

  I shrugged. "You know you can't trust everything you see on the news."

  "What does Ramirez think?" Mrs. R asked pointedly.

  Three pairs of eyes turned my way.

  I licked my lips, putting the orange juice in the refrigerator to mask my expression. "I've barely seen him today. He was home late and out early."

  "Working the case?" Mom asked.

  "I don't know if there is a case. I mean, it's possible this was all some tragic accident."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt snorted. "People don't usually accidentally drink cyanide laced tea."

  I shot Marco a look.

  He shrugged. "Sorry, they dragged it out of me."

  I shook my head. But I could hardly blame him. Not only were Mom and Mrs. R a force to be reckoned with, but Marco also worked reception at my stepfather Fernando's salon in Beverly Hills. It was hard enough to resist beauty salon gossip, but it was nearly impossible to stay tight-lipped when the one grilling you was also the person writing your paychecks.

  "So, is it true?" Mom asked, wiping at a spot on my counter. "Moira was poisoned?"

  I thought about lying, but honestly the details were bound to trickle their way to Channel Two soon enough anyway. I nodded. "Ramirez said it looks that way."

  "I knew it!" Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I kept Albert up half the night talking it over."

  We all looked at her.

  "What?" she asked. "Albert is a very good listener."

  "Well, I'm glad I wasn't there," Marco said. "It sounds perfectly ghastly. And to think it was murder."

  I put a finger to my lips to shush him before the twins could hear us. "We don't know that for sure," I cautioned him.

  "Honey, please." He did a dramatic eye roll. "Do you seriously think it wasn't?"

  No, I didn't. Neither did Channel Two or Seven. Or TMZ. Or the L.A. Informer.

  "I know it was," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I think maybe the spirit world finally got its revenge on her. You can't mess around with spirits. They'll win every time. They've got the cloak of invisibility. You know, like Superman."

  "Superman wasn't invisible," Marco told her. "He could leap tall buildings in a single bound. And he was faster than a speeding bullet. Although I don't know if I'd go around advertising that."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt frowned. "Then who had the cloak of invisibility?"

  "Maybe it was whoever had the cone of silence," Marco said.

  "The cone of silence." She made a face. "There's no such thing."

  He put his hands on his hips. "Oh, but there's a cloak of invisibility?"

  "Children," I interrupted them. "If we could step back to the land of reality for a moment?"

  "I'm just saying." Mrs. Rosenblatt crossed her arms. "She disrespected the spirit world once too often."

  "What a terrible thing to say." My mother rinsed the twins' sippy cups and stacked them in the dishwasher. "She devoted her life to helping people connect to their departed loved ones."

  "She devoted it to money and ratings," Mrs. Rosenblatt argued. "And she had plenty of both. You saw what she did to poor Ricky, for no good reason other than drama. Did you notice she didn't even have any details for him? You don't drop a bomb like that on someone without details to back it up. That woman saw a pure ratings bonanza."

  Mom opened her mouth but closed it again, conceding the point.

  "What do you think, Maddie?" Marco asked.

  I finished wiping milk off the table and tossed the kids' napkins in the trash. "I think I need to get the kids to school before we're late."

  "What are they going to miss?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "Story hour?"

  "She's just trying to instill good habits in them," Mom said on her way out of the room. "It's not polite to be late."

  "But it is fashionable," Marco said.

  He ought to know.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, we'd dropped the twins off at school and swung by Starbucks for muffins and caffeinated reinforcement before heading for Dana and Ricky's house in the Hollywood Hills.

  "Would you look at this?" Mom said as we made our final turn and the gaggle of press came into view, set up outside the fence with cameras trained on the house. Satellite trucks were parked up and down the street. One reporter I didn't recognize was doing a bit with the house as the backdrop, his face almost a caricature of solemnity. Beside him several other reporters stood, laughing and sipping from paper coffee cups, probably running a pool on what might have killed the Hollywood Psychic.

  "There's probably nothing these vultures would like better than to see someone paraded out in handcuffs," I muttered to myself.

  Mom looked at me with alarm. "Is that going to happen?"

  "Not a chance," Marco said flatly. "Dana and Ricky had nothing to do with the foul play here, and I'm sure Ramirez knows that."

  "Celebrities always bring out the vultures," Mrs. Rosenblatt said with disgust. "It's as if some people actually like to see other people become Swifted."

  Mom's eyebrows lifted. "Become Swifted?"

  "You know, like become the butt of a Taylor Swift song? Pull a Kanye, lay an egg, act like a schmegegge. Crash and burn?"

  Mom shook her head at Mrs. R. "How old are you?"

  "I can't help it if I'm hip." Mrs. R shrugged. "You gotta get with the times, Betty."

  While I felt like I needed an urban dictionary to keep up with Mrs. R, I had to admit that my mother could use a little getting with the times. As witnessed by the acid wash on her jeans.

  "Mrs. R is right," Marco agreed. "Scandal sells, like it or not."

  "Well, I don't like it," Mom said. "I think it's terrible. They should have some respect for the dead."

  "They don't have any for the living," I pointed out.

  We wound our way through the gauntlet of reporters, ignoring the shouted questions and the click of still cameras. I keyed in the security code on the gate, careful to make sure it closed securely behind us before winding up the driveway to the house. Which still had a squad car and a CSI van parked outside of it.

  Ramirez had been right. It was going to be a rough spell for Dana and Ricky, especially when news got out just how the psychic had died. I only hoped the speculation wouldn't start to swirl around Ricky himself.

  My friends were in the kitchen, nursing mugs of cold coffee and looking wan from a likely sleepless night. I lifted the Starbucks bag. "Here. Blueberry and coffee cake."

  Dana barely looked at it. "Thanks, but I don't have much of an appetite."

  "You have to eat," Mom told her.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt fished a blueberry muffin from the bag. "Look, fresh fruit, already built into this nice healthy muffin." She looked at Dana. "Halvesies? The sugar will do you good."

  "She'll take half," Mom said. "I'll find a knife."

  I dumped their coffee down the drain and poured them each a fresh cup while Dana picked at her half. "I see the police are still here?"

  Dana nodded. "They've sealed off the living room."

  "They were here for hours last night," Ricky said, yawning. "We didn't get to bed until after three."

  Dana stirred sugar into her coffee. "And now our house is a crime scene. How are we supposed to live in a crime scene?"

  "It could have been a terrible accident," I said, feeling like a fraud for perpetuating the idea.

  "Is it awful to say I hope so?" Dana asked.

  "Sorry, honey," Marco said, "but it's not likely she was accidentally poisoned."

  "Poisoned!" Dana's color paled.

  I shot Marco a look.

  "Oops." He shrugged and did a sheepish grin.

  "What do you mean, poisoned?" Ricky asked, coming to stand behind Dana and putting a protective hand on her shoulder.

  I reluctantly filled them in on what Ramirez had told me the night before. "The ME will know more for sure once he's done a full examination," I finished with.

  "Cyanide. Where does one even get that?" Ricky mused.

  "It's readily available if you have the right permits," Marco said. "It's still used in agriculture and mining. And of course it's all over the dark web. Really, anyone can get it."

  I shot him a questioning look.

  "What? I google."

  "Can you imagine how the reporters will react when it comes out she was murdered?" Dana moaned.

  "Those sharks," Mrs. Rosenblatt said disdainfully. "Did you hear the things they shouted at us? As if we're going to stop and give them a scoop. I don't know why they're allowed to practically camp out there to begin with."

  "They're just waiting for a picture they can slap a sensational caption on," Ricky said as he dropped into the chair beside Dana with a tired sigh. "It's what they do. That's why the drapes are closed."

  "This will pass," Mom said, patting the back of his hand.

  Ricky gave her a humorless smile. "Thanks. But I'm not so sure it will. I just wish…" He trailed off.

  "Wish what?" Dana prompted.

  He shook his head. "It's a terrible thing to think, but I wish she'd been able to finish the reading before she'd died." He looked sheepish. "Selfish of me, right? But what she said about my mom…" He trailed off again.

  "You can't put too much stock into what she said," I hedged. "I mean, she could have been making it all up."

  "But it could have been true, too!" Ricky protested.

  "Ricky, have you had anything to eat?" Mom asked. "Can I make something for you?"

  "I'm not hungry," he said. "But thank you."

  "Nonsense." Mom bustled over to open the fridge. "You two need to keep up your strength. At least let me fix you some toast. You can stomach toast, can't you?"

  Ricky's expression suggested otherwise, but that didn't stop my mother. In her world, food was comfort and nurture, and when words failed, oat bran bread would not. She dropped four slices into the toaster and put out butter and strawberry jam.

  "Look, I know you're all skeptical," Ricky said.

  Dana opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  "It's okay," he said. "I'm skeptical too. I know, it's hard to believe in things you can't see. But…but what if there is some truth to what she said?"

  My eyes went around the room, meeting Dana's then Marco's and even Mom's, the unspoken question hanging there.

  Could there have been some truth to it?

  "It was interesting timing," Marco said, repeating the sentiment he'd expressed the night before. "I mean, someone killing Moira DeVine right after she reveals a murder."

  Mom gasped. "You don't think someone killed the psychic before she could reveal who shot Beth?"

  "Puh-lease," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "She was a fraud. It was all acting!"

  "She's not acting dead," Marco pointed out.

  "God rest her soul," Mom mumbled.

  "But what if she wasn't a total fraud?" Ricky turned to Mrs. R. "She knew I was an impatient little kid."

  "Everyone's an impatient little kid," she countered. "It's in the kid handbook."

  "She knew about the Mustang," he added.

  Dana nodded. "That's true. You've always remembered that car."

  A smile touched his lips. "I was so young then. My dad might just as well have brought home a space rocket. He didn't have it very long, but I remember him driving it in a Fourth of July parade one year."

  "There could be a perfectly logical explanation for how she knew about the car," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.

  "Such as?"

  Mrs. R frowned. He had her there.

  "I'm sure the police are looking into every angle of DeVine's death," I jumped in, trying to be the voice of reason. "But I highly doubt anyone killed the psychic just to keep her from channeling a dead woman's ghost."

  "But," argued Marco, "did someone kill the fake psychic before she could divulge the incriminating information she'd dug up about her unsuspecting subject's mother?" He waved a hand at Ricky. "No offense."

  "None taken," he mumbled, frowning as that thought sank in.

  "So, you're saying that just because the dead didn't reveal the murder, that doesn't mean that Beth's death wasn't a murder," Dana said.

  "Ah-ha!" Mrs. R stabbed the air with a forefinger clad in a hibiscus covered ring. "That's it! However this charlatan got her information, she somehow stumbled on proof of a murder. And she was killed in an effort to silence her!"

  I shook my head. "I think we're jumping to conclusions here. There's no evidence that the two deaths are related at all."

  "But Marco's right," Ricky said. "The timing can't be a coincidence—"

  "Actually it could," I hedged.

  "—Moira dies just as she's about to tell us all the details of a murdered woman."

  "Allegedly murdered," I added.

  But no one was paying me any attention at that point.

  "But who would kill her to keep it quiet?" Mom asked. "Who wouldn't want that information to come out?"

  "Beth's killer," Mrs. R said nodding.

  "But she died what—thirty years ago?" I asked, looking to Ricky for confirmation.

  He nodded. "Twenty-six."

  "And the police said it was an accidental fire, right?"

  More nodding, only this time it was slower. "At least, that's what my dad told me," Ricky said. "I thought about it half the night." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I was only five at the time. I don't remember much, only bits and pieces. I even called my dad last night to see if he could fill in some details."

  "And?" I almost hesitated to ask.

  "He didn't pick up. I had to leave a message."

  "I'm sure he'll get back to you soon," Dana said, patting his hand reassuringly.

  Mom slid two plates of toast onto the counter in front of them and handed them each a knife. "Here. Eat, the both of you."