"I can't eat," Ricky said, staring glumly at his plate.

  "You know," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, licking muffin crumbs off her fingers, "if your mom's death and Moira DeVine's death are connected, that means her killer would have had to know what Moira was going to tell you ahead of time."

  "Meaning she did not receive a spur-of-the-moment message from the beyond," Marco reasoned.

  "No." Mom shook her head. "She was contacted by the spirits. I'm sure of it."

  Mrs. R harrumphed. "Well, unless you think the spirits killed her, her murderer had to know what she was about to spill."

  Mom frowned but shut her mouth.

  "Then that's where we start," Dana said, her eyes shining with a dangerous light I'd come to know all too often. "We need to know Moira's methods. How she got her info on her subjects."

  "I'm sure the police are looking into every angle—" I started again.

  But Dana cut me off. "Of Moira's death. But what about Ricky's mom?"

  I pursed my lips. Yeah, I was pretty sure no one was looking into that.

  "I can ask Albert to help," Mrs. Rosenblatt offered. "I'm sure he'd be happy to drop in on DeVine. He says the newbies usually appreciate the company."

  "Or," Dana said slowly, "we could ask her assistant. Chico. I bet he'd know everything about how she worked."

  "He was the one who made Moira's tea," Mom pointed out.

  "I don't know if that's a good idea…"

  But again, no one was listening to me. Dana already had her phone out, swiping away at the screen, that Nancy Drew look in her eyes shining so brightly that I almost needed sunglasses.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With a little googling, we found an address for Moira DeVine's studio, located on Sunset Boulevard just over the line between the skeevy part and the trendy part. Even though it had been Dana's idea to dig into Moira's life, the second she looked out her front door and down the driveway to the tabloid roadblock, it was decided that she and Ricky should stay put. The only thing that could make the situation worse would be a run-in with the paparazzi.

  Instead, I promised to call Dana as soon as we knew anything.

  "Okay, so how are we playing this interrogation?" Marco asked as we buckled back into my minivan.

  "Not an interrogation. We're just going to talk to Chico," I clarified. "A grieving man," I reminded them, already starting to regret this decision.

  "Or someone playing a grieving man," Mrs. R pointed out.

  "So now Moira's assistant is a phony too?" Mom said, frowning. I could tell she was still on Team DeVine.

  Mrs. R shrugged. "We'll know soon enough. I can intuit when someone's lying. It's a gift."

  "Another gift," Mom said with an eye roll. "You're just loaded with them."

  "I can't help it if I got the second sight. Albert takes care of me that way," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "It always helps to have someone on the inside."

  "Well, you don't get more inside than Chico," I pointed out. "Whatever Moira's methods were."

  Mrs. R tried to twist in her seat to look out the back window. "We haven't picked up any tails, have we?"

  My mother rolled her eyes. "Who do you think you are? Cagney and Lacey?"

  "Who's that?" Marco asked.

  "I think they were TV detectives," I told him. "From 30 or 40 years ago."

  "Excuse me, they went off the air in 1988," Mrs. R said. "That was just a few years ago."

  "Define few," Marco said, sending me a wink.

  In the mirror I caught Mrs. R gearing up for a lecture and quickly changed the subject. "When we get there, I'd appreciate it if you let me take the lead," I said.

  Mrs. R's pout deepened. "What, because you're the one married to a cop?"

  No, because I was the one who didn't think she talked to the dead. But I just nodded. "Sure."

  Though, I should have known that it wouldn't have mattered, because as soon as we found street parking and knocked on the closed glass doors to the "DeVine Studio of the Hollywood Psychic," Mrs. R couldn't help herself.

  "We need to talk," she told a puffy-eyed Chico as he pulled open the door.

  "Y-you do?" He blinked at us, as if trying to focus. In his defense, there were a lot of clashing colors in my companions' outfits.

  Chico's eyes were watery, his nose red, and his cheeks blotchy, like he'd been crying non-stop since the night before. He still wore Moira's scarf in two loose loops around his neck, the fabric puckered from dried tears. Clearly Chico was not coping well. I felt a little guilty for imposing on his grief.

  "We wanted to express our condolences to you on your loss," I jumped in.

  "Oh." His eyes watered again. "Thank you."

  "May we come in?" I asked softly.

  He sniffed, but nodded and stepped back to allow us entry. "You're Ricky Montgomery's friends, right? You were there when…" He trailed off with a sob.

  I nodded. "We're so sorry for your loss," I repeated as we filed into the front room. "Is there anything we can do?"

  "What can anyone do now?" he wailed. "Madam is gone!"

  Mom put a hand on his back as he wiped tears away with the poor scarf.

  I was about to say more, when I realized Chico was not alone.

  A uniformed police officer with a barrel belly, red cheeks, and a snow white buzz cut stood awkwardly across the room, watching the group of us. He was beneath a framed poster of Moira DeVine in full Hollywood Psychic mode, rings on nearly every finger, multiple necklaces, heavily lined eyes, and the jet black curls cascading down her back. The poster was striking.

  I noticed Chico avoided looking at it.

  The police officer eyed us all slowly.

  "Are we interrupting?" Mom asked.

  Chico shook his head. "Officer Willis was just going over some information from last night." He sniffed loudly. "These are friends of Ricky Montgomery. Madam's final subject." He choked on the last word.

  The officer gave a curt little nod apparently meant to encompass all of us together. He looked to be in his late fifties to early sixties, lines crisscrossing his face in a way that said he's spent a fair amount of years on the beat in the California sunshine. "Pleasure to meet you folks. Sorry for the circumstance. How's Mr. Montgomery doing?"

  About as well as a person could do after being told by a psychic that his mother had been murdered then watching said psychic drop dead herself in his living room minutes later.

  "He's fine," I said. "Thanks for asking."

  "It all must be quite a shock," he said. "I hope the press isn't harassing him too much."

  "As a matter of fact," Mrs. Rosenblatt began.

  Chico let out a shuddering sigh and cut in. "I think we were done, Officer?"

  Willis nodded. "For now. Thanks for your cooperation, sir. I'll see myself out."

  While Chico walked the man to the door, I took in the rest of the studio. It reflected the enormous success and mild kitsch of Hollywood Psychic. The front window was hung with heavy red velvet drapes tied back with braided gold rope. Promotional posters intermingled with covers from industry magazines featuring stories about Moira DeVine across black-painted walls. Gold-veined black marble tile lay underfoot, and a few thickly padded armchairs stood sentinel along the wall. Unsurprisingly, a sales display case stood at the back next to a beaded curtain hanging over a closed door to back rooms, and a crystal chandelier tossed rainbow shards over the whole scene.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt wandered through the space, her head swiveling left and right as she inspected the place with the intensity of a sketch artist. She lingered at the display case. "Is that a Magic 8-Ball?"

  Chico barely glanced over at her. "Yes."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt snorted. "Is this psychic for real? Outlook not so good."

  Mom shot her a scowl. "Hush. Can't you see the boy is grieving?" She turned to Chico. "Have you been able to get any rest at all, young man?"

  "Not much," he admitted. "I just can't believe that… It's such a loss to, well, the world, really."

  I was pretty sure the world could function without the Hollywood Psychic. I wasn't so sure about Chico.

  "You and Moira were very close," I observed.

  He nodded. "I was all she had."

  "No family in the area?" I asked.

  He shook his head.

  "No friends?" Marco pressed.

  "It was just Madam and me." He looked about ready to dissolve into tears again. "And of course, there's Jerome."

  Marco perked up. "Jerome? Who's Jerome?"

  On cue, a bloodcurdling shriek sliced through the studio and scuffling sounds came from behind the door to the back rooms.

  "Never mind," Marco said. "I don't think I want to meet Jerome."

  Fists pounded on the door.

  Chico let out a long sigh. "He's not very happy with me right now, but I had no choice. He kept stealing Officer Willis's hat."

  "A kleptomaniac?" Marco shook his head. "Honey, you need a different roommate."

  "I'd like one," Chico said. "But Jerome was Madam DeVine's pet. She made me promise if anything ever happened to her, I'd look after him, but…"

  "I get it," Marco said. "She didn't want her boy-toy tossed out on the street. But trust me, kleptomaniacs are nothing but trouble."

  "Jerome wasn't her boy-toy," Chico said, indignant.

  Marco shrugged. "Fine. Her one true love who steals compulsively. Whatever."

  "Jerome is a monkey," Chico said.

  We all stared at him.

  "A monkey," Marco repeated. "Just because a guy's hairy, it's a little offensive to call him a monkey."

  "A real monkey," Chico said emphatically. "A monkey, monkey."

  "Well, that's a new one," Marco said.

  "Monkeys are adorable," Mom said. "Can we meet him?"

  "I'm not dressed right for this," Mrs. Rosenblatt objected. "I'm wearing some good jewelry here. I don't want any klepto monkey stealing my good jewelry."

  "Jerome won't bother you," Chico said. "He only bothers me. He's got something against me."

  "That can't be true," my mother said. "Monkeys are fun-loving creatures. And they've got such cute little hands."

  Jerome's cute little hands pummeled the door as if he were trying to escape an axe murderer.

  "Bring him out here," Mom said. "I'm sure we'd all love to meet him."

  Chico hesitated. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said finally.

  He opened the door, and a capuchin monkey bounded out with a frustrated "Screeee!!" He headed straight for Chico, leaped into his arms, slapped him soundly across the face, and climbed up to perch on his left shoulder.

  Marco clapped his hands and giggled. "He's so precious!"

  "Isn't that something!" Mom cried with delight. "I guess he's not happy you locked him up back there."

  "I guess not," Chico said dryly.

  Jerome scampered over to sit on the floor in front of Mrs. Rosenblatt, eyeing her bangles.

  She stared down at him. "Don't even think about it, fur face."

  Jerome stuck out his tongue at her.

  She shook a finger at him. "That's rude."

  Marco stretched out his arms. "C'mere, Jerome."

  Jerome glanced over at him, did a double-take, and rushed over to jump into Marco's embrace.

  "Isn't he darling!" Marco cooed, pressing his smooth cheek to Jerome's furry one.

  "Darling," Chico agreed flatly. "He'd make a lovely hat."

  Jerome stuck out his tongue at Chico.

  "He doesn't mean that," Marco told the monkey, petting his little head. "You're just a fuzzy widdle lovey doovey, aren't you?"

  Chico's eyes rolled toward his bleached hair.

  "Uh, anyway, about Ms. DeVine," I said, trying to steer the conversation back to our reason for being there. "We were wondering if you could tell us a little more about her methods?"

  Chico turned his attention from the monkey to me, a small frown forming between his well drawn eyebrows. "Why?"

  Great question. "Well…" I started, trying to think fast.

  But Mrs. R thought faster. "Because your Madam was poisoned!"

  Chico gasped and swayed on his feet. "Who told you that?"

  "Uh…" I hesitated to say.

  "It was the press, wasn't it?" Chico went on. "Those vultures. They're already spreading vicious rumors."

  Sure, let's go with that.

  "Rumors?" Mom said. "So, you don't think it's true?"

  Chico inhaled deeply, seemingly choosing his words carefully before answering. "Well, I suppose if it's out there, it's out there. Yes, the police said they suspected she'd been… poisoned." He looked ill at the thought.

  "Did they say anything else?" Marco fished.

  Chico's eyes went from one of us to another, clearly wondering how much to share. "I guess I might as well tell you. A homicide detective was here earlier."

  "Ramirez?" I asked, feeling a teensy bit guilty about butting into his case.

  "I don't know his name. Tall, dark, and sexy."

  Well, he wasn't wrong there. "What did he say?" I asked.

  "He said that…well, that there was a chance someone might have tampered with Madam's tea."

  "And?" Mrs. R asked, leaning in. "Did someone?"

  Chico's eyes went big and round as the insinuation sank in. "Well, I didn't!"

  "You gave it to her," Marco pointed out.

  "I handed it to her."

  "But you made it," Mom said.

  "I steeped it in hot water. I didn't actually create it!"

  "I thought you said it was special blend," I noted.

  He sighed deeply. "It was store-bought loose herbs. Plain old chamomile and valerian root."

  Mrs. R snorted.

  "Look, it relaxed Madam," Chico explained. "It helped her calm her own energy and be open to the energies on the other side."

  "Where did Moira keep her tea?" I asked, glancing around the studio.

  "The police asked that too," Chico mumbled. "In the back. There's a small kitchen."

  "Who had access to it?" Mom asked. "Customers?"

  "Clients," he corrected. "Madam never called them customers. So gauche."

  As opposed to a film crew. "Clients, then," I said. "Were they ever in the back rooms?"

  He hesitated, which was its own answer. "Well, yes. For readings. And the restroom is back there. Next to the kitchen. Look, I already told the police…" He took a breath to gather himself. "Madam had clients coming in and out of here all the time. Because of her gift, everyone wanted a reading with her. She was so popular. Not to mention the production crew, the hair and makeup team, the stylists. But…" His eyes went from one to the other of us again.

  "But what?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.

  "Well, there was a break-in."

  "Here?" I asked, my eyes going around the studio, trying to ascertain what someone might want to steal. I was pretty sure the Magic 8-Ball wasn't worth more than $7.99.

  "Well, no. Not here exactly. I mean, not that I noticed at the time. But there were reports of break-ins in the neighborhood. The police came by to check the studio out and everything."

  "When was this?" I asked.

  "Just last week." He sucked in a loud sob. "I told the police I didn't notice anything missing. But the thought of some random thief poisoning my poor Madam…" He trailed off, sniffling loudly into his scarf.

  Marco and I shared a look. While it was entirely possible someone had broken into the studio to deposit poison in DeVine's tea, I had a feeling it wasn't altogether random.

  "You mentioned DeVine's clients," I said slowly. "Any chance one of them wasn't entirely happy with the reading DeVine gave them?"

  "Of course not!" Chico said hotly. "Everyone loved her!"

  Well, clearly not everyone.

  "People flocked from all over to see her," Chico bragged. "And not just clients, but also tourists. They wanted to see the famous psychic's studio. And even the skeptics came to gaze on her, to be honest."

  "What do you mean, skeptics?" Mom asked.

  "People who thought Madam was a scam artist and wanted to prove it." Injury sharpened his tone. "They left disappointed, of course. But that didn't stop them from trying. We got one or two of those a month. It goes with the territory for a controversial public figure."

  "I don't suppose you have security cameras in here?" I asked hopefully.

  But Chico shook his head. "The police asked that too. But Madam believed in privacy for her clients. Not everyone wanted it known that they made regular visits to a psychic. She took great pride in protecting them."

  "Didn't want to let anyone see how the sausage was made, huh?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.

  Jerome made a cackling sound. Marco squeezed him softly. "Shhh," he whispered in rebuke.

  "Sausage?" Chico repeated. "If you're implying that Madam wasn't truly gifted, I take exception."

  "How did she prepare for readings?" I asked.

  Chico turned to me. "You saw. She drank her tea, got into a trance, and the spirits filled her."

  "Right." I nodded, trying to look like I believed that. "But, I mean she must have done some preparations ahead of time. She knew who she would be reading, right?"

  "Of course. Madam was a professional. She'd never go into a reading without knowing who she was with."

  "And she must have known something about them. I mean, she knew Ricky was an actor, right?"

  "Well, yes…"

  "How much research did she do on her subjects?"

  Chico licked his lips. "Some. Just enough to be able to interpret the scripts from the otherworldly spirits for her sessions, but—"

  "Scripts," Mrs. Rosenblatt echoed. "I knew it!"

  "Scripts?" Mom repeated, crestfallen.

  "Not scripts scripts," Chico assured her. "No one gave her lines or told her what to say. It wasn't like that."

  "What was it like?" Mrs. Rosenblatt pressed.

  He reddened. "Look, Madam was a true psychic medium. But the spirits, they can be cryptic sometimes. And the afterlife doesn't always run on a production crew's schedule."

  "So, is it possible Madam just got a little help from the physical world now and then?" I asked softly.

  "Help." Chico seemed to try that word on. "Yes, just a little help."

  "What kind of help are we talking?" Mrs. R pressed, an I-told-you-so grin etched on her cheeks.