Note to self—no goodbye kisses from Marco.

  I clicked my way through a blue crystal bead curtain into the storage room, and the scene got even stranger, if that was possible. The overhead light was out, but the piercing brightness of a cell phone flashlight app brushed aside the darkness, showing Mrs. Rosenblatt at a makeshift table constructed of stacked hair product shipping boxes, covered with a black drape imprinted with tiny golden scissors. Mom stood over her shoulder, fanning her slowly with a menu for the Flaming Wok Chinese restaurant. They both glanced up when I reflexively breathed an "Oh, no."

  "Oh, Maddie!" Mom waved elaborately. "Come join us!"

  I moved closer, carefully. "What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "We're holding a séance."

  "With a flashlight and boxes of styling cream?"

  "We had to be creative," she said. "This isn't exactly the Hollywood Psychic studio. We plan to catch a killer, and my spirit guide is going to help us by asking Beth who killed her."

  "Just like that," I said.

  "Just like that." Mrs. Rosenblatt snapped her fingers. "Albert never lets me down. Come, have a seat. Another pair of ears can't hurt."

  I sniffed the air. "You went a little heavy on the Youth Dew, didn't you?"

  She shrugged. "I didn't have incense. Like I said, creative."

  I looked at my mother, busily fanning away with the menu. "What are you doing there, Mom? Helping to usher in the ectoplasm from the next dimension?"

  "I'm keeping Dorothy cool," she said. "This is a small room, and she's doing a big job."

  "I don't suppose I can convince you to do your big job somewhere else?" I asked, thinking of the gossiping ladies of Beverly Hills just on the other side of the beaded curtain.

  "Albert says this is the perfect place," Mrs. Rosenblatt told me. She patted the stack of boxes beside her. "Sit, Maddie. I can't concentrate with you hovering like that."

  Mom gave me a little frown and tipped her forehead toward the boxes. I could see there was no dissuading them, so I sat down. "What do I have to do?" I asked reluctantly.

  "Listen and watch. I'm about to show you how this is really done. No cheesy theatrics for me." Mrs. Rosenblatt threw back her head, closed her eyes, and bellowed, "Yo, Albert!" She opened one eye a crack. "He's a little hard of hearing."

  My mother stopped clutching her chest and resumed fanning.

  "Sorry to interrupt," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. She peeked at us again. "He's on the ninth hole."

  "They play golf up there?" Mom asked. "Isn't that nice."

  "Is that where golf ball–sized hail comes from?" I joked.

  Mom shushed me with another frown.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt closed her eyes again. "Nice to see you, too, Albert. I need you to do me a solid."

  Mom and I looked at each other.

  "Does Albert even know what that means?" I asked.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt scrunched up her nose at me. "Shhh. You'll upset the energy." Back to the closed eyes. "We need you to find Beth Montgomery," she intoned. "Ask her who killed her. We'll wait."

  Silence.

  From the front of the salon, I heard the pitter-patter of little monkey feet and Marco's "Jerry? Where's my little man?"

  "Still waiting," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "Can you shake a leg, buddy? We've only got the room for another few minutes."

  The black drape moved slightly.

  Mom gasped. "Did you see that? He's here!"

  "I told you Albert never lets me down," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "Give us a name, Albert."

  Something burst out from behind the stacked boxes yelling, "Screeee!"

  My mother let out a scream and jumped back. "That's not Albert! That's Jerome! What is that monkey doing in here?"

  Jerome jumped up on the boxes and sat down grinning in front of Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  She threw up her hands. "Well, this isn't going to work now. There's too much monkey mojo in this place."

  Jerome stuck out his tongue at her.

  "But we need a name," Mom protested. "Can't you try again?"

  "It's too late." Mrs. Rosenblatt shooed Jerome away. He hopped down and scampered back through the beaded curtain out of sight. "I already put in a cosmic voicemail for Albert to get back to me after he talks to Beth."

  They had voicemail in the afterlife? And I had hoped to be rid of phones altogether. I stood up, flexing and stretching my back. "Are we done here?"

  "For now," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.

  Mom held up the Flaming Wok menu. "Shall we order a late lunch?"

  I shook my head. "I have to pick up the kids. Besides, I—"

  A scream came from the salon floor, followed by Fernando yelling, "Marco! Get that beast out of this salon and don't bring him back!"

  We rushed to the front to see Marco hustling out the door with Jerome loping along beside him, clinging to his hand.

  Fernando stood next to a slack-jawed client with a giant blob of styling mousse quivering on top of her head. "We'll just scoop that right off," he was saying.

  "That poor woman's hair is going to be stiff as a two-by-four," Mom said.

  "I hope he doesn't fire Marco," I said.

  "I think I'd like some egg drop soup," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.

  * * *

  I barely made it to the twins' school in time to pick them up. They and a few other students were waiting out front with a teacher, blissfully unaware of my frenetic schedule when they climbed into the minivan.

  "Ugh." Max wrinkled his nose. "It smells in here, Mommy."

  Livvie twisted in her seat and took a big sniff. "It does smell in here. It smells like feet."

  "Put your shoes back on, Liv." Max dissolved into giggles.

  I switched off the air conditioning. "Let's open the windows and it'll go away."

  "I don't think so," Livvie said solemnly.

  I had my doubts, too, but I hid them with a smile. "We'll just give it a try, okay? What did you guys learn today?"

  They chattered about school the entire way home, comparing notes on who was the fastest runner in the class and whether their teacher's eyes were blue or green, which gave me plenty of time to think about Moira DeVine. Admittedly it wasn't the most pleasant thing to think about. Between her claim that Ricky's mother had been murdered and her own death, I found myself vaguely depressed by the time we got home. The twins charged to their room to play together while I diligently tried to get a little work in on my peep toes before starting dinner.

  Before I realized it, an hour had slipped past and my plans for dinner had winnowed down to what I could order or throw together in the few minutes I had before my kids started their hunger-whines. While takeout sounded easier, I knew they'd had french fries the night before, so I forced myself into healthy-Mom mode and I filled a pot with water for pasta. I dumped a jar of marinara into a saucepan and added a few spices to liven it up. Then skinned and chopped some carrots and cucumbers, added cauliflower florets and croutons, and mixed them with some romaine lettuce and dressing. I'd just finished setting the table when Ramirez walked in.

  "Hey, babe." His five o'clock shadow scratched my cheek when he kissed me. "You cooked."

  "Don't sound so surprised."

  "Who me?" He did an innocent palms-up. "So how was your afternoon?"

  I put the salad bowl on the table. "I attended a séance."

  "Yeah?" Unfazed, he popped a crouton into his mouth. "How'd that go?"

  "Not so well. Albert didn't answer the phone."

  He stopped chewing. "What's that?"

  I grinned. "Mrs. Rosenblatt's pipeline to the afterlife."

  "Oh. Right." He shook his head. "I should've known."

  "She wants him to ask Beth Montgomery who killed her. But she had to leave him a voicemail."

  "Maddie." His mouth twisted for a second before he let out a sigh. "I'm gonna grab a shower before dinner," he said finally.

  "Wait." I put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Did you find out anything about DeVine's informants?"

  "Well, I did talk to Chico again this afternoon."

  I raised my eyebrows. "And?"

  "Kind of a mixed bag," he said. "He wasn't exactly forthcoming about names. He said they were confidential informants."

  "Can't you get a warrant to see her notes or something?"

  He shook his head. "Possibly, but we'd need some probable cause to search."

  I pursed my lips. "I guess protecting Ricky doesn't count."

  "Sorry, babe." He planted a kiss on the top of my head.

  "I think Chico's hiding something," I told him.

  He nodded. "Probably doesn't want it to get out just what a fraud his boss was."

  "Or maybe he's the one who killed his boss," I said. "He did give her the tea."

  "He did, but it's entirely possible the tea was contaminated before he served it to her."

  I nodded. "It sounds like she didn't exactly keep the studio under lock and key," I conceded.

  "And cyanide in crystal form is pretty shelf stable," Ramirez added.

  "But it still could have been Chico," I protested. "He'd have the most access."

  "True," Ramirez agreed. "But I'm not seeing much motive. DeVine was his meal ticket, and all accounts are that there wasn't any bad blood between them. If you asked me, he seems to like basking in the glow of quasi-celebrity."

  I nodded. I'd seen him basking too. "What about Beth's file?" I asked, filling a couple of sippy cups with milk. Then adding a little chocolate syrup so they'd actually drink the milk. "Did you get a chance to look at that?"

  He nodded. "Records was able to provide the original file. Paper, back then."

  "And?"

  "And, it's honestly kind of a mess."

  "Oh?" I asked, setting the sippy cups at the twins' places. "Do tell?"

  Ramirez chuckled. "Don't get excited. There's nothing in it to indicate foul play."

  "Oh." I wasn't sure if I was glad for Ricky or disappointed at losing our one lead.

  "But the record keeping was terrible on this one. And I gotta say, the investigating officer really did the bare minimum."

  "How so?"

  "Sparse reports. No autopsy. Arson was initially indicated, but it was logged as accidental."

  I stared at him. "How can that be?"

  He shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe there was some reason the arson idea was dropped. Granted, a lot of arsons go unsolved, especially talking twenty plus years ago."

  "But if someone set the fire on purpose, it actually is possible Beth's death was intentional."

  Ramirez shook his head. "It's also possible Willis was lazy and just dropped the ball on this one."

  "Willis?" Why did that name ring a bell?

  "Yeah. The investigating officer was named Willis. Why?"

  It clicked. "Big guy, buzz cut?" I ran a hand over my head as if to illustrate what I meant.

  He smiled. "You do realize you just described half the force."

  "I think I met him today."

  Ramirez frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "You met Officer Willis? Where?"

  "At Moira DeVine's studio. He was talking to Chico when we got there. He seemed—" I stopped, noticing his frown deepen. "I swear, I totally wasn't interfering in the investigation. I didn't even know he'd be there."

  "It's not that," he said. "I'm wondering what he was doing there in the first place."

  "I don't know exactly." I shrugged. "I figured he was taking Chico's statement. Anyway, he left right after we arrived."

  "We took Chico's statement at the scene." Ramirez shook his head. "I hope he wasn't trying to cover his tracks about how slip-shod his work was into that fire."

  "So you think there is a connection between the two deaths?"

  Ramirez held up his hands. "Now, I wouldn't go that far. But if Willis read Chico's statement about DeVine's last reading, he had to know someone would be looking at Beth's file at some point and would see what a crap job he did."

  "It's really that bad?"

  "There should have been an autopsy," Ramirez said. He shook his head. "But maybe there's a good reason one wasn't done. I'd have to ask Willis before jumping to any conclusions. I'm not looking to jam up an old-timer over it."

  "You big softie," I said, picturing the officer I'd met that day.

  He grinned. "Don't let word get out."

  I dipped a wooden spoon into the sauce and held it up. "Here. Blow and taste."

  He did, and then he swooped in for a lingering kiss that left me nearly breathless. "Spicy," he whispered.

  He got that right.

  * * *

  Ramirez was up and out early the next morning, long before my alarm went off to signal the start of my day. Even so, it felt like it came much too early, but what else was new? I threw myself into a shower, then dressed in a pair of high waisted stretch leggings, an asymmetrical sweater, and a pair of spiky heels in the same emerald green as my top. Then I got the kids up and poured them both cereal and juice, straightening up a little while they ate and/or spelled out words with the cereal amid fits of giggles.

  We were in the middle of negotiating the day's dress code—no, my rhinestone-encrusted sandals with the five-inch heels were not appropriate for Show and Tell—when I heard my mother's voice from the front room. "Maddie! Are you home?"

  I regularly regretted giving her a key.

  "Be right there," I called.

  Five minutes later, Livvie and Max were out of their pajamas and looking presentable. I ran a comb through their hair and then told them, "Go say hi to your grandmother."

  Mom was in the living room, not entirely surprisingly with Mrs. Rosenblatt in tow. The kids ran straight into my mother's arms, clad in a hot pink sweater with an orange kitten embroidered into it, squealing with delight when she enveloped them in a bear hug.

  Okay, maybe I didn't regret giving her a key that much.

  I gathered my hair into a ponytail, pushing errant strands away from my face. "This is awfully early for you two to be out and about again, isn't it?"

  "We have news," Mrs. Rosenblatt announced. "It just couldn't wait."

  "Okay," I hedged, fearing what sort of news this could be that just couldn't wait.

  "Albert answered my psychic voicemail," she said proudly.

  That was one long-distance call.

  "I told you he never lets me down," she went on. "His answers came to me in a dream last night."

  "Go on, Dorothy," Mom urged her. "Tell her about it."

  "Well…" Mrs. Rosenblatt held up an index finger. "First, there were fires."

  Not surprising, given the circumstances. And I was about to say so, when she counted off a second finger.

  "Then," she went on, "a baby lion appeared."

  "A baby lion?" I asked.

  "We're thinking it might symbolize Ricky," Mom said. "You know, Richard the Lionhearted."

  "And it was a baby lion. Like Ricky was little when his mom died," Mrs. R added. "But it's the third thing we're having trouble interpreting."

  Dare I ask… "What's the third thing?"

  Mrs. R gave me a hard look as if delivering the punch line. "A pickle."

  I blinked at her. "A pickle."

  Mrs. R nodded vigorously. "A really big kosher dill. What could it mean?"

  "Maybe it's the pickle we're in," I said with an almost straight face.

  "Maybe Beth was hungry when she died?" Mom offered.

  "Maybe it's code," Mrs. R said, still nodding. "Like an anagram. Or something that rhymes."

  Mom frowned in concentration. "Tickle, sickle, trickle…"

  "Well, all of this is fascinating," I said, sarcasm leaking into my voice despite my best efforts, "but I've got to get the kids to school."

  "We need to crack this code, Maddie," Mom said. "It's important."

  "The police use a lot of code crackers, right Mads?" Mrs. R asked. "Maybe we should tell Ramirez about the dream?"

  "Wow. That sounds like a really…interesting idea. But you know he's very busy—"

  Luckily I was saved from finishing that thought as my phone trilled from my purse.

  I held up a hand to Mom and Mrs. R as I grabbed it and saw Dana's number.

  "Hey. Everything okay?" I answered while simultaneously trying to corral the children (adult-sized and kinder-sized) to the door. I put her on speaker while I grabbed the twins' backpacks.

  "More than okay. I just heard back from Bixby Sparks."

  "Bixby Sparks?" I asked, ushering everyone out onto the porch and locking the front door behind me.

  "The PI who consults for my show."

  Right. "And?"

  "And she is legit, Maddie! She was able to find a current address for Ricky's Uncle Bart." Dana's excitement was evident in her voice. "Or, Bartholomew Eberly, as is his full name. He lives in Culver City. Meet me there?"

  "Oh, well, actually I have some work I need to—"

  "We'll be there as soon as we drop the twins off at school!" Mom shouted over my shoulder.

  I shot her a look.

  "We?" Dana asked. "Was that your mom?"

  "And Mrs. Rosenblatt!" Mrs. R shouted.

  "You're on speaker," I said apologetically.

  "We're here for you, bubbe!" Mrs. R yelled.

  "You can count on us!" Mom chimed in.

  "I'm sorry," I added.

  "Well, I guess I'll see you all there soon," Dana replied, undeterred by the extra guests. "I'll text you the address."

  I hung up and spun around to find Mrs. Rosenblatt practically beaming. "I just knew that dream meant something."

  "I don't know who this Bixby person or Uncle Bart are," Mom said, "but it sounds interesting."

  * * *

  Luckily the eau de Jerry in my minivan had dissipated somewhat overnight, making the drive breathable. By the time we reached Culver City, I'd managed to fill both Mom and Mrs. R in on Uncle Bart and his possible connection to Beth's death and cautioned them to be on good behavior for Ricky's sake while we gently talked to the man. I emphasized that point several times, each one to no avail as the word interrogation kept replacing it in their vocabulary.