The address Dana had sent turned out to be in the Breezy Palms Retirement Village. A hexagonal community center lay at the end of the entrance road, with spokes of well-kept streets reaching off on either side. The houses seemed identical in design, the exterior color scheme pale green, pale blue, or pale salmon, with pristine white window coverings and handkerchief-sized verdant green front yards.

  "We need to find 221 Cypress Lane," Mom said, consulting my GPS.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt craned to look around at the neighborhood. "This place is depressing."

  "What are you talking about?" Mom asked. "It's adorable. It's like we've driven into a pastel crayon box."

  "Retirement villages are always depressing," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "Ambulances coming and going all the time, mashed prunes at every meal, the smell of Bengay everywhere. And just look at these cars. Why on earth would a retiree need a car that seats twelve? Do they serve Thanksgiving dinner in there?"

  "You're a retiree," Mom pointed out.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt shuddered. "Not this type of retiree. I'm the fun kind. I bet no one's ever even skinny-dipped in the community pool there."

  "When have you ever skinny-dipped?" Mom demanded. "You don't even like to get your hair wet."

  "I've thought about it plenty of times," Mrs. Rosenblatt shot back. She tapped me on the shoulder. "Take it from me, Maddie. Get your skinny-dipping out of the way while you're young, before anything below 75 degrees feels frigid. Ramirez will understand what I mean. Trust me."

  Thankfully, I was spared from replying when I spotted Dana and Ricky standing next to her Tesla, parked in front of a pale green house. I pulled in behind them, and we gathered on the sidewalk to look over 221. It didn't take long. White window coverings, handkerchief lawn, Sherman tank of a car in the driveway.

  "Do you want us to wait here?" I asked. "Give you a few minutes alone with him?"

  Ricky shook his head. "I don't want to do this alone."

  Dana grabbed his hand in hers, and we trouped up to the door and rang the bell. No one answered.

  "Are you looking for Bart?" A woman in scrubs stood on the sidewalk along with a 200-year-old woman in a wheelchair who was tucked up to her eyes in a blanket.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt nudged me. "See?"

  I ignored her.

  Ricky stepped away from the door. "Yes, we are, but he's not answering. Have you seen him?"

  She pointed. "I'm pretty sure you'll find him holding court at the rec center."

  "Holding court?" I repeated.

  The woman nodded. "Bart's something of a ladies' man."

  "He's a hottie," the blanket with eyes croaked.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt cackled. "You go, girl!"

  We thanked her before piling back into our cars and driving the short distance back to the community center. Inside, it was clear which of the men had to be Bart—the one with the full head of pure white hair, playing an upright piano and doing a dinner theater sort of patter for the benefit of his audience of women while the other men sulked and glowered from across the room.

  Dana put her arm around Ricky, grinning. "Now I see where you get it from. You come by that charm honestly."

  It occurred to me that charm might be the only thing Bart came by honestly. We stood watching for a moment, and my instant, visceral reaction to him—with his constant too-wide smile, his tendency to be touchy-feely with his audience, reaching out to stroke an arm, touch a wrinkled hand, pinch a soft cheek, or tickle a chin—was distrust. He was clearly enjoying his role as the playboy. And his audience was clearly eating it up, blushes hitting cheeks as the women circling him regarded him with adoring eyes, swooning at his off-key rendition of "I'll Be Seeing You."

  "So that's Uncle Bart." Ricky studied him, uncertainty stamped on his features. "Should we wait for the song to end?"

  "Please, let's not," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.

  Dana regarded the rapt audience. "I think we'd better."

  Finally, after more banter and a prolonged musical segue into some unrecognizable melody, Bart concluded with a dramatic glissando. There was a round of applause, and a few women dabbed at their eyes. I'd prefer to think because all his unnecessary gesticulations had blown something into them.

  Ricky set his shoulders. "I guess I should introduce myself."

  Luckily, Bart didn't launch into another song. He stayed at the piano, waiting while his harem rotated and settled back into place.

  Ricky stepped up. "Bart Eberly?"

  Bart's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing for just a moment as if he was trying to place us. "That's the name they gave me. Do I know you handsome young people?"

  Mrs. Rosenblatt preened. Mom narrowed her eyes.

  Ricky took a deep breath. "I'm Ricky Montgomery. My mother was Beth Montgomery."

  The color drained from Bart's face. When his gaze flitted away from Ricky and back again, I couldn't help but wonder if his spontaneous reaction had been shock or guilt.

  "Baby Ricky." He slapped his thighs. "I never thought—" He stood and took hold of Ricky's shoulders with both hands, looking hard at him. "I see my sister in you, son. You have her eyes. Goodness, I just—ladies!" He glanced at the throng of curious women clustered about. "Ladies, this is my nephew, Ricky. Last time I saw him, he was just a little boy."

  "Not anymore," someone murmured.

  Bart took his hands off Ricky's shoulders and pumped his hand vigorously. "This is the best gift you could give an old man. Family." He shook his head in disbelief. Suddenly he seemed to remember the rest of us were there. "Who did you bring with you?"

  Ricky made the obligatory introductions. Bart's eyes lingered on Mrs. Rosenblatt. He lifted her hand to his lips. "Aren't you lovely," he cooed. "Tell me, is there a Mr. Rosenblatt?"

  "Six of them," she told him. "But don't let that stop you."

  He frowned a little and let go of her hand.

  "Is there someplace we can talk privately?" Ricky asked.

  "Of course." He turned his attention back to Ricky. "We'll go to the game room. It's always empty this time of day. The Parcheesi tournament doesn't begin until four. Follow me." He offered his arm to Mrs. Rosenblatt. "May I have the honor?"

  "Aren't you the gentleman," she purred.

  He smirked. "When I have to be."

  Bart threaded his way through his admiration society, which were disappointed to see him leave, if the dirty looks were any indication. Mrs. Rosenblatt lifted her chin and sailed through without a backward glance.

  Dana leaned into me. "What do you think so far?"

  I didn't really want to say. "I'm keeping an open mind."

  The game room sat just off the great room and featured a single red-felted billiard table along with a few card tables, one stacked with board games. A game of Scrabble had been abandoned midstream, the board and tiles still sitting out. A seating area comprised of a sofa and several armchairs sat to one side. We settled in there and spent a few awkward seconds waiting for each other to speak before Bart broke the silence.

  "So, you finally decided to look up your old uncle, huh?"

  Ricky leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. "Honestly? I didn't know you existed until yesterday."

  Bart's frowned. "You didn't know I existed?"

  Ricky shook his head. "My dad never talked about you."

  "Figures." He gave a derisive snort. "You know I visited your mother regularly when she was alive. You too."

  "So I heard," Ricky said levelly. "But I don't remember you."

  Pink tinged Bart's cheeks. "Well, I never was very good with kids. Never knew what to say to them, exactly. But the ladies. Them, I could relate to."

  "We saw," Mom mumbled, giving Mrs. R a wary glance, who I noticed had been hanging on Bart's every word.

  Bart gave a forced laugh that faded away almost immediately. "So what brings you here now? Don't tell me you need money, kids." He winked at Ricky. "Aren't you supposed to be some kind of movie star?"

  It took some effort to suppress my frown. Five minutes into meeting Ricky, and he'd already brought up money. I glanced at Dana, and it was clear that her impression of Bart was slipping by the second.

  "He certainly is a movie star," Mrs. Rosenblatt told him, a note of pride in her voice. "Ricky's a very successful actor."

  "Well, well." Bart sat back, appraising him. "Hit the big time, huh? You must have been born under a lucky sign."

  "Hard work got him where he is," Dana snapped. "Not luck."

  Bart held up both hands in surrender. "Whoa! Take it easy, little miss. I mean no offense. It's just that actual working actors are a rare breed." He turned his attention to Ricky. "I knew you had it in you from the start."

  "Did you." Ricky's voice was flat.

  No one said anything for a few seconds.

  "So, you two newlyweds?" Bart asked, gaze going from Dana to Ricky.

  Dana nodded. "We married a couple of years ago."

  "Any kids?" Bart asked.

  "No," Dana answered.

  "Well, I'm sure the pitter-patter of little feet is just around the corner for you two lovebirds." Bart gave her a wide smile.

  Dana frowned.

  Bart cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, anyone care for a drink—"

  "It's 10 a.m.," Dana said flatly.

  "Is it?"

  "Look, I actually tracked you down for a reason," Ricky jumped in.

  "Oh?" Bart looked relieved to turn his attention back to Ricky.

  "I wanted to ask you some questions. About my mother."

  Bart's face broke into a genuine smile. "She was an angel. Kind, sweet, generous. Best big sister a guy could have ever asked for."

  "So you got along?" Mrs. R asked.

  "Of course!" He nodded vigorously. "I want you to know that I think of my sister every single day, and now I have you as a living memorial to her. It makes me feel…" He broke off, swallowing hard. "To be honest, it makes me feel as if she's still with us in a way." He ran a finger under his eye.

  I noticed he had not teared up.

  "I heard you argued with my mother," Ricky said.

  Uncle Bart's smile faltered for a second. "Now, who told you that? Beth and I were close. Very close."

  "She called the police on you a few months before she died," Dana said.

  Bart's hand froze on his face, his eyes darting to each of us in turn before settling on Ricky. "I-I don't want you to get the wrong impression. Beth and I were close. I loved my sister."

  "But you still took financial advantage of her," Dana pointed out.

  Two bright red splotches appeared on Bart's cheeks. "What kind of thing is that to say?"

  "My dad told me you regularly borrowed money from my mom," Ricky said.

  "Did he now." Bart's expression betrayed what he thought of Robert.

  "So is it true?" Ricky pressed. "Did you fight with my mother over money?"

  "Okay. Alright. I admit it, I was a bit of a bad boy back then." Uncle Bart sent Mrs. Rosenblatt a charming smile. "I probably drank a little too much. And when I drank, I had a hot temper. So, yeah, sometimes my mouth got me into a little trouble. What can I say? I was young. I made mistakes. Youth. It's wasted on the young, right?" He winked at Mom.

  "Speak for yourself," she mumbled.

  He forced a smile and humorless chuckle.

  "But you did argue with my mom," Ricky pressed. "And you were threatening enough that she called the police."

  He held up his hands. "Whoa. I didn't threaten anyone. I'd never hurt Beth. I just… I was in some trouble. Financial trouble. And I was desperate. So, I asked Beth for some cash."

  "And she said no," I supplied, remembering what Robert had told us about Beth cutting him off.

  He nodded. "It was the first time she'd turned me away. I was…well, I was hurt. I felt abandoned by her. And, yes, I'd had too much to drink that night, so I'm sure I said a few things I didn't mean. Maybe got a little loud."

  "She was scared enough that she called the police." Dana glared at him.

  "I'm not proud of how I acted back then." Uncle Bart put his hands up in a surrender motion again. "But I've been sober ten years now."

  "You just offered us drinks." Mom arched an eyebrow at him.

  "Sure. You. Not me." His charming smile was getting thinner and thinner. "I'm telling you, I'm a different person. Stint in the slammer gives a guy a lot of time to look at his life."

  "You went to prison?" Ricky looked dismayed.

  "Not prison! Just county jail. Burbank. A short stint. No biggie. Just a little misunderstanding with a charming little lady."

  Mom's other eyebrow arched.

  "Let me guess—this misunderstanding was of a financial nature?" Dana asked.

  Uncle Bart gave a weak laugh. "Girls and their pocketbooks. Very hard to part, huh?" He shrugged. "But, like I said, that was a blessing in disguise. Gave me a chance to turn my life around. I've been a very good boy for the past ten years." He turned to Ricky. "And I'm sorry I ever acted otherwise to your mother. She was one of a kind and truly deserved better."

  Ricky nodded, and I could see him softening to his uncle. "Thank you."

  "What do you know about the fire?" I asked, watching his reaction. "The one that took Beth's life."

  Uncle Bart sucked in a breath, letting it out again slowly. I couldn't tell if it was to calm genuine emotion or stall for time. "It was a tragic accident."

  "Was it?" Dana pressed.

  Bart frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "She means we're not so sure it was an accident," Mrs. R piped up.

  "Y-you can't think it was set on purpose? That someone would intentionally want to harm Beth?"

  "The police files on her death are not conclusive," I shared. "But it's possible she was killed before the fire was set."

  "And the fire was used to cover up the murder," Mrs. R added.

  "No, that can't be." Bart shook his head, though I couldn't tell if he was honestly baffled or acting. "And who would want to hurt Beth?"

  "That's the question, isn't it." Dana gave him a pointed look.

  Uncle Bart's features suddenly morphed from confusion to fear. "Now, hold on. You're not trying to say that I…that I'd harm my own sister?"

  "You just admitted you had a temper back then," Mom pointed out.

  "And a drinking problem," Mrs. R added.

  "Yeah, but I'd never actually hurt anyone. Let alone my own sister!"

  "You weren't on the best of terms when she died," Ricky noted.

  Bart shook his head, his jowls wobbling. "No, that's not true. I mean, yes there was that one incident, but we made up after that."

  "You did?" Dana asked, sending me an uncertain glance. "I thought that night the police came was the last time you saw Beth."

  "No." More jowl wobbling. "No, about a week before she died I went to see her again. I went to the house to apologize for my behavior." He dropped his head to study the splayed fingers on his thighs. "She was so gracious. She even agreed to loan me money then."

  Disgust laced Dana's voice. "You mean you went to her for money again?"

  "I had no choice," Uncle Bart shot back. "I was in real financial trouble." He paused. "The truth is, she saved my life."

  "How's that?" Ricky asked.

  The red splotches were back. "Because the loan shark I owed would have killed me if I hadn't come up with five grand."

  "Five thousand dollars?" Mom repeated. "That was a lot of money back then."

  "Still is," I said, turning to Bart. "So you took her money, and then what?"

  "Then nothing." He glanced at each of us in turn. "I-I thanked her, we made up, and I left."

  "And she died a week later," Ricky said, his voice sad.

  "Where were you that night?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked point blank.

  He gave a disbelieving huff of breath. "I don't know. That was thirty years ago."

  "Twenty-six," I corrected.

  His eyes flitted to me. "Well, honey, that's a long time for an old brain like this one." His charming smile was back as he tapped his temple with a finger. He shot Mom a wink. "These memories aren't what they used to be, are they?"

  "My memory is excellent." She narrowed her eyes until all I could see were two round blotches of blue eyeshadow.

  "Yes, well…" Uncle Bart trailed off. "I'll be honest with you kids. I have no idea where I was that night. But if I had to guess—"

  "You do," Mrs. R cut in.

  "—I was probably in Palm Springs paying back Virgo. The loan shark."

  "Maybe we should check with him," Dana said.

  "He could be anywhere by now," Bart said hastily. "Virgo didn't stay in one place too long. He was a rolling stone." His smile was fleeting and phony.

  "How about Moira DeVine?" Dana asked him. "Did you know her?"

  "Who?" He frowned.

  "The Hollywood Psychic. She had a TV show," Mom informed him.

  "Right." Bart's face broke into a grin of recognition. "I've seen that show. She talks to ghosts, right? I dated a gal once who watched it. Not really my cup of tea, but you don't change the channel when a lady is watching her favorite show, am I right?"

  "Not if you want to keep your fingers," Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed.

  He gave a nervous laugh.

  "So you didn't, say, get a visit from Moira DeVine recently?" Dana asked.

  "Me? Should I have?" He looked from her to Ricky. "What does she have to do with anything?"

  "She's the one who first mentioned Beth's death might be murder," Mom said.

  Bart flinched at the word. "Wait—this is all on some psychic's say-so?"

  "Hey, psychics are very powerfully intuitive people," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, bristling.

  "She's also dead," Mom said flatly. "Also murdered."

  "She's—oh." He took a beat to digest that. "I mean…but you don't think…why would there be any connection…why would you think I know her?" he finally settled on.

  "Because she knew an awful lot about Ricky. And his mom. And she had to get that information from somewhere," Dana said.

  "Maybe she got it from the ghosts?" He grinned.

  Mrs. R snorted. "She couldn't actually talk to the dead."

  "See, I'm not much for that woo-woo stuff either." He waggled all ten fingers at Mrs. R, giving her a flirty smile.