Chico licked his lips. "Well, she had people who she could contact for a little tidbit of info about her subjects if needed. You know, just to help her interpret the spirits' messages."

  "Like informants?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, looking positively gleeful.

  "Informants sounds so dirty." Chico scoffed. "They were…friends."

  "Paid friends?" Marco asked.

  Chico inhaled, his nostrils flaring with the effort. "So what if Madam was generous enough to compensate her friends with a little monetary gift?"

  "Who were these friends?" I asked.

  "Personal assistants. Receptionists. Valets, servers. People most celebrities overlook." The disdain in his voice told what he thought about that.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt crossed her arms. "I knew it. She was a gold-plated phony."

  "She certainly was not," he shot back. "She did have a gift and she could connect with the other side. Sometimes she needed a little boost to meet the shooting schedule."

  "Did she need that help with Ricky's session?" I asked, aware of the steel in my voice.

  "Well…" His Adam's apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed. "Maybe."

  "Which friends tattled about his life?" Marco asked, an edge in his voice too.

  "I-I don't know." Chico swallowed hard again. "Look, Madam knew Ricky wanted to contact his mother, so she did a little research into the woman's death. Just to be prepared." He must have seen my eyes narrow, as he quickly continued. "But I swear I had no idea she was going to claim his mother had been murdered! I was as shocked as everyone when she said that."

  "She didn't share her script with you?" Marco asked.

  He shot Marco a dirty look. "How would I know what the spirit would divulge to her in that moment?"

  "Did she keep any notes?" I asked. "About her research on her subjects?"

  Chico suddenly looked wary. "Maybe. Why?"

  "Because we'd like to see what research she did for her reading for Ricky," Marco said pointedly.

  He cast a glance at Mrs. Rosenblatt. "I don't think that's a good idea. Those files are private."

  "Sausage," Mrs. Rosenblatt sniffed.

  "Look, it's been a very trying day," Chico said, his eyes misting on cue again. I realized he'd been able to keep his grief at bay during the entire conversation we'd had about Madam's methods. Apparently it came and went—at convenient times. "I think I'd like you all to leave now."

  Mom put a sympathetic hand on his arm. "She was a lovely woman," she told him. "I was a huge fan."

  "Thank you," he sniffed loudly.

  The monkey let out a laughing screech, as if mocking the crocodile tears.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make to animal control," Chico ground out.

  Marco's mouth fell open. "You wouldn't!" He pulled the monkey in close to his chest.

  "Well, I can't keep him!" Chico said. "He's a wild animal. And he hates me."

  On cue, Jerome stuck out his tongue.

  "Be nice," Marco admonished him. Jerome blinked and stared into his eyes. Marco touched his forehead to Jerome's. "You're such a brat," he whispered.

  Jerome threw back his head and smiled a gummy monkey smile.

  "I'll take him," Marco announced. "Until you find someone who can adopt him, I mean."

  As if he understood, Jerome started bouncing excitedly in his arms.

  "Are you sure?" Chico asked. "He's a bit of an imposition."

  "It's no imposition," Marco said. "I've been meaning to get a roommate."

  "Are you even allowed to have a monkey?" Mom asked.

  "Who'll know?" Marco scoffed. "I'll buy him a cute little sweatsuit and headband and tell everyone he's my little brother."

  "With a glandular problem," Mrs. Rosenblatt added.

  Jerome shook his head back and forth repeatedly.

  "Well, if you're sure," Chico said doubtfully.

  "Positive!" Marco assured him. "We'll have a great time!"

  * * *

  "Are you out of your mind?" I asked Marco as we walked back to the car. "You don't know anything about taking care of a monkey. What do you even feed him?"

  Marco settled Jerome on his hip. "I'm thinking banana bread and pineapple juice."

  "I'm thinking you'd better take him to the zoo," I said.

  Jerome stuck out his tongue at me.

  "Little Jerry and I don't like that idea," Marco informed me.

  I sighed. "Fine. Take him home. Give him his own room. Buy him a car if you want to."

  "Don't be silly," Marco said. "He couldn't reach the pedals."

  "Maybe you can teach him to call an Uber," I said.

  "I sense an attitude, young lady," Marco informed me.

  "I wonder if Jerome knows where DeVine kept her notes," Mrs. Rosenblatt mused, eying the monkey as if he could tell her.

  "If there even was anything in her notes," I said, playing devil's advocate. "For all we know, she just made it up on the spot."

  "Or," Mom said, "it's like Chico said. She did a little research into the death of Ricky's mom, which gave her some inside knowledge that, when the spirits contacted her—"

  "You don't still believe that hooey about her being able to talk to the dead?" Mrs. Rosenblatt cut in.

  We all turned to stare at her.

  "I mean, of course I can talk to the dead," she amended.

  Of course.

  "Anyway," I said, "I actually would like to know who sold DeVine information about Ricky's mother. That's not a person Ricky needs in his life."

  "If it is someone in Ricky's life. Chico said she was digging up info about Ricky's mom," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "Maybe she talked to some old friends of Beth's."

  "Or old enemies," Mom pointed out.

  "Maybe she dug enough that she actually did find proof of a murder."

  "It's entirely possible," Mom agreed.

  "But then the killer struck again thirty years later?" I said. "That sounds more like Halloween Part 17 than reality."

  "Any killer would try to hide their crime," Mom pointed out. "It doesn't matter how many years pass."

  "And, really, we have no idea who Moira talked to about Ricky's mom," Mrs. R hedged. "Dredging up all that from the past. Maybe she even chatted with the killer and pushed them over the edge again."

  "If only we knew who she talked to," Mom mused.

  Mrs. R nodded. "If only we had those notes…"

  "Well, I, for one, am keeping an open mind, honey," Marco told me as I opened my car doors. "There's no explaining the things people do."

  "Like adopting monkeys," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.

  "Okay," Marco said. "I don't appreciate that. And that's one example. Not a great one, but an example."

  We piled into my minivan, Marco settling Jerome into the seat beside him. "I hope you like to ride in the car, little man," he cooed.

  Jerome promptly stood and peed on the seat.

  "He did not just do that!" I cried, horrified.

  "Sorry, Mads." Marco edged farther away from the stain. "I'll pay to have that cleaned." He scowled at Jerome. "Bad monkey!"

  Jerome dropped his head.

  "I'm not riding back there," Mrs. Rosenblatt announced. "I'm not about to go through my day smelling like monkey tinkle."

  "Roll down the windows," I said. "Mom, you can sit here up front. Mrs. R, you can have the rear seat."

  "What about me?" Marco asked.

  I glared at him in the mirror. "You can stay right where you are."

  "That's not fair," he grumbled. "I'm not the one who wet the seat."

  "You could always walk home," I suggested.

  "But it won't kill me to sit with little Jerry." He slung an arm around Jerome's hairy shoulders. "Right, little man?"

  Jerome's head bobbed up and down, and he gave his gummy smile.

  The acrid combination of monkey scents prompted me to test the speed limit all the way home. Fortunately, Jerome nodded off after the first mile, his head lolled back on the seat, snoring gently. The rest of us tried to breathe as shallowly as possible until I screeched to a stop in my driveway and turned to Marco.

  "Time to go."

  "Going," he said abashedly. "Straight to the pet store for supplies. And maybe some bananas." He tapped Jerome on the shoulder. "Ready, little man?"

  Jerome opened his eyes, did an arms-over-the-head stretch, and hopped into Marco's arms.

  I climbed out of the minivan and noticed Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt huddled deep in conversation at the rear bumper.

  "…think Albert can be very helpful," Mrs. Rosenblatt was saying. "I bet he can give us a name like that." She snapped her fingers.

  "What if he can't?" Mom countered. "We need an earthly plan."

  "What are you two talking about?" I asked.

  They went silent for a moment before Mom smiled brightly at me. "We're going to figure out who Moira DeVine was about to name as the killer."

  "And exactly how are you going to do that?"

  "That's the question, isn't it," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.

  It wasn't the only question, but I didn't get a chance to ask another because my phone rang and Dana's name appeared on the screen. I answered with a sinking feeling. "Is everything alright?" I winced as soon as the words left my mouth. Turned out there was such a thing as a dumb question.

  "Do you have time for lunch?" she asked.

  That hadn't been what I'd expected. Surprised, I glanced over at Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt, chattering in low voices. I was getting a bad feeling, but that was nothing new when it came to Mom and Mrs. R. "I guess so. What's going on?"

  "Ricky's dad called him back," she said. "He and Ricky's stepmom saw the news about Moira DeVine. They're on their way here now." She paused. "Honestly, I could use the moral support."

  "I'll be right over." I disconnected and dropped the phone into my bag.

  "We're going to be on our way," Mom announced before I could say anything. They bustled toward her car as if they'd just received the Bat-Signal.

  "Don't get in any—" Her car roared away, leaving me standing there staring after it.

  "—trouble," I finished, knowing full well that was a futile suggestion.

  * * *

  The bulk of the paparazzi had taken a lunch break by the time I made it back to Dana's Hollywood Hills house, or maybe they'd been called off to cover the star of the month who'd been spotted leaving a supermarket with a loaf of plain old white bread instead of the 17-grain loaf of wood shavings currently in vogue. A smattering of reporters glanced at me disinterestedly when I pulled into the driveway. No one bothered to take my picture. I noticed just one CSI van on the scene, parked near the front door. Ramirez stood near it, talking to one of the techs. He broke away from the discussion when he saw me get out of the minivan, and I met him before he got close enough to smell the monkey souvenir.

  "Hey, Mads," he said, leaning in for a quick peck on my cheek.

  "Hey. Dana and Ricky inside?" I asked.

  He nodded. "I thought you were planning to be here earlier this morning?"

  "I was. But Dana invited me back to lunch with Ricky and her in-laws." I glanced at the forensic tech. "They find anything new?"

  He gave me a half grin. "Nothing I can share."

  "Well, you're no fun."

  The other half of his mouth curved upward. "I beg to differ," he said, coming in for another kiss that was longer and more lingering than the peck.

  "No fair," I mumbled as he finally pulled back. "You're trying to distract me."

  "Is it working?" he asked, still giving me some serious bedroom eyes.

  Yes. "No," I responded, trying to infuse my voice with some indignation even while my mind was already back home in our king-sized bed. I cleared my throat. "Chico said you'd been by to talk to him?"

  Ramirez nodded slowly.

  "I'm guessing by the fact he's not in handcuffs, you didn't find evidence that he was the one who put cyanide in DeVine's drink?"

  He shook his head. "We're early in the investigation," he hedged. "When did you talk to Chico?"

  Oops. I guess maybe my husband had distracted me a little. "Uh…earlier."

  He cocked his head to the side, giving me the same look he'd given the twins last week when they'd taken a box of Crayolas to the living room wall. "Maddie…"

  I rolled my eyes. Which was meant to protest being treated like a toddler but in hindsight maybe just looked like a toddler.

  "We went to Moira DeVine's studio on Sunset Boulevard," I admitted. "To pay our respects to Chico."

  "We?"

  "Mom. Mrs. Rosenblatt. And Marco."

  Ramirez's grin was back. "I can just imagine what kind of respects they paid."

  "Good, then I don't have to tell you."

  He chuckled. "Fair enough."

  "Chico did mention something though," I said.

  "Oh?"

  I nodded. "About DeVine using informants. That's how she knew personal things for the reading she did."

  Ramirez nodded. "Not terribly surprising. I mean, she had to get that information somehow, right?"

  "Right. You haven't run across anything that would point to who she talked to about Ricky, have you?"

  He hesitated just a moment before shaking his head. "No."

  "I mean, if it was someone close to him—like someone he works with, or someone at his agent's office or something—he deserves to know."

  He sighed. "The price of fame, huh? Your business is everyone's business."

  "I guess so." I bit my lip. "But you don't think that DeVine could have talked to someone about Ricky who maybe really did know something about his mom's death, do you?"

  He frowned. "Babe, she died thirty years ago."

  "Twenty-six. But it is weird timing, right?"

  "Sure. But it doesn't sound as if DeVine was a real people pleaser. There could be all kinds of people she's upset enough to want her dead."

  "I know," I repeated. "But if she really did find something—anything—Ricky deserves to know."

  He sighed again, but this time his half smile was back, creating one dimple in his left cheek. "Okay. Tell you what. I'll look at the original file on her death. Just to put your—and Ricky's—minds at ease."

  "Thank you," I told him, coming in for a hug.

  His nose wrinkled. "What is that smell?"

  I grimaced. Was it lingering on me too? "Monkey pee."

  He drew back a little. "Excuse me?"

  I waved him off. "Long story." I gave him a quick kiss. "I've got to run. Tell you all about it later."

  "Not sure I want you to," he called after me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dana had set up lunch on her back patio, which offered a stunning view of the San Fernando Valley beyond a sparkling infinity swimming pool. A warm breeze wafted across the space, rustling the palm fronds and carrying the scent of lush bougainvillea. I spotted an older couple savoring white wine under the shade of the pergola. Just beyond that, Ricky stood on a square of lush green lawn, his phone to his ear as he frowned off into the distance.

  "Ricky's talking to his publicist," Dana told me, nodding toward her husband. "The phone's been ringing nonstop all morning."

  "I'm so sorry," I told her.

  She gave me a wan smile. "This too shall pass, right?"

  I nodded, admiring her fortitude.

  "Anyway, let me introduce you to Ricky's parents." Linking arms, Dana marched me straight over to where the older couple sat. "Robert, Lillian, I'd like you to meet my best friend, Maddie Springer. I asked her to join us for lunch."

  I shook their hands with a smile, struck by Ricky's likeness to his father, minus some softness at the jawline. They shared the same blue eyes, same classic good looks, same easy smiles. Lillian's dark hair showed just a touch less grey than her husband's, and she wore a flowing dress that was flattering to her soft shape. Her smile exuded warmth and a sense of calm.

  "Lovely to meet you," Lillian said.

  "Likewise," I said, sitting in a rattan chair across from the pair.

  Dana handed me a glass of white wine. "Robert was just admiring the construction going on at our neighbor's." She waved a hand to the west, where I could see another magnificent home in the stages of being built, just through the grove of palm trees and privacy hedges. "He's an architect."

  "I was an architect," he corrected her with a smile. "I recently retired."

  "I haven't quite gotten used to that yet," Dana told him, returning his smile. "I thought you'd work forever."

  "It felt as if I did." Robert chuckled. "But it's a young man's world now."

  "Young person's world," Lillian corrected him. "Women hold just as many important positions as men now."

  "Well, they can have them," Robert said. "I'm content to leave my wristwatch at home and travel the country."

  "Lillian is working her last few weeks behind the cosmetics counter before she retires, too," Dana filled me in. "I don't mind admitting I'm a little jealous." Her smile said otherwise. "Excuse me while I grab a tray of sandwiches from inside."

  I sat down at the table, taking a sip of the crisp wine. "Congratulations to both of you. What are your plans? Do you really intend to travel the country?"

  "Our first plan is to sleep past six a.m." Robert smiled at his wife. "And yes, the RV is packed and ready to go. We've always wanted to travel, but we could never find the time."

  "That sounds exciting," I said.

  "It's also bittersweet," he admitted. "It's not easy to close such a long chapter of life. It wasn't easy to sell our home, either."

  "Ricky grew up there," Lillian added.

  And Beth had died there. But that wasn't a subject I wanted to bring up without Ricky and Dana.

  "So you recently bought an RV, then?" I said instead.

  He brightened. "Last year, actually. And it's a marvel of organizational design. As soon as we finish clearing out the house for the new owners, we're off to the Grand Canyon and points beyond."

  Lillian patted his hand. "He admires the compact design. I'm afraid there just might be a tiny house in my future."

  He smiled at her. "Occupational hazard, I'm afraid."

  "It's a good thing I adore him," Lillian told me, lifting his hand to plant a quick kiss on it. "Twenty-five years and counting."