“Pneumonia? That’s no fun.” This also from the firm’s junior partner. “Were you hospitalized by any chance?”

“Yeah. Five fun-filled days and nights at Huntington Hospital. I’ll be happy to give you the name and number of my doctor.”

“When were you discharged?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“And you’re already back doing the party scene?” That was Jake with pseudofriendly mockery. “How do you know Paul Kane?”

“We met once before today. He’s optioned my first book for a possible film. He thought it would be a good idea for me to meet the director and screenwriter, and he suggested this party.”

“So you’re a writer?” Detective Alonzo inquired. He checked his notes as though to emphasize that I’d failed to mention this vital point.

I nodded.

“Among other things,” remarked Jake.

I thought maybe he ought to curb it if he didn’t want speculation about our former friendship. But maybe marriage and a lieutenancy made him feel bulletproof. He didn’t interrupt as Detective Alonzo continued to probe.

I answered his questions, but I was thinking of the first time I’d met Paul Kane. Living in Southern California, you get used to seeing “movie stars.” Speaking from experience they are usually shorter, thinner, more freckled, and more blemished than they appear on the screen. And in real life their hair is almost never as good. Paul Kane was the exception. He was gorgeous in an old-fashioned matinee idol way. An Errol Flynn way. Tall, built like something chiseled out of marble, midnight blue eyes, sun-streaked brown hair. Almost too handsome, really. I prefer them a little rougher around the edges. Like Jake.

“Hey, pretty exciting!” Alonzo offered, just as though it wasn’t Hollywood where everyone is writing a script on spec or has a book being optioned. “So what’s your book about?”

A little dryly I explained what my book was about.

Alonzo raised his eyebrows at the idea of a gay Shakespearean actor and amateur sleuth making it to the big screen, but kept scribbling away.

Jake came over to the table and sat down across from me. My neck muscles clenched so tight I was afraid my head would start to shake.

“But you also run this Cloak and Dagger mystery bookstore in Pasadena?” Alonzo inquired. “Was Porter Jones a customer?”

“Not that I know of. As far as I’m aware, I never saw him before today.” I made myself look at Jake. He was staring down. I looked to see if my body language was communicating homicidal mania. In the light flooding from the bay window my hands looked thin and white, a tracery of blue veins right beneath the surface.

I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair, trying to look nonchalant rather than defensive.

We’d been talking for thirty minutes, which seemed like an unreasonable time to question someone who hadn’t even known the victim. They couldn’t honestly think I was a suspect. Jake couldn’t honestly think I’d bumped this guy off. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Five o’clock.

Alonzo circled back to the general background stuff that is mostly irrelevant but sometimes turns up an unexpected lead.

To his surprise and my relief, Jake said abruptly, “I think that’s about it. Thanks for your time, Mr. English. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”

I opened my mouth to say something automatic and polite -- but what came out was a laugh. Short and sardonic. It caught us both by surprise.

Chapter Two

“Gosh, you look terrible!” Natalie exclaimed.

I batted my lashes. “You always know the right thing to say.” I flipped through the day’s sales receipts.

I’d acquired Natalie two years ago when Angus, my former bookstore employee, split for parts unknown. After a string of temps I let my mother -- against my better judgment -- persuade me into hiring Natalie.

Natalie, at that time, was my brand-new stepsis. After thirty-odd years of widowhood, my mother Lisa had suddenly decided to remarry, and with Councilman Bill Dauten had come three stepsisters, in order of appearance: thirty-something Lauren, twenty-something Natalie, and twelve-year-old Emma.

The Dautens were the nicest family in the world. I kept a watch out for the insidious undercurrents, the clues that all was not as it should be, but nope. Nothing. Okay, maybe Bill overdid the Jagermeister on the holidays and got squirm-makingly sentimental, and I could have done without Lauren and her many crusades -- and Natalie had the worst taste in men I’d ever encountered outside of my own -- but Emma was a pip.

“Where’ve you been? I was getting worried.”

I replied vaguely, “It took longer than I expected.” Anything I told her would hit the familial newswire within the hour, and for now I needed this to be an exclusive.

“Did you have a good time?” She really wanted to know; she really hoped I’d had a good time. This was one of the things that I found hard to get used to in having an extended family. All this friendly interest was nice but it was strange.

After years of it being just Lisa and me -- okay, actually being mostly just me -- all these interested and involved bystanders made me uneasy.

I glanced without favor at the boyfriend du jour: Warren Something. He lolled in one of the club chairs near the front desk, looking bored. Straggly hair, emaciated body, and one of those wispy goatees that made me yearn for a sharp razor -- and not so that I could give him a shave. He wore a T-shirt that read Chicks Hate Me. Supposedly he was some kind of musician, but so far all he seemed to play was on my nerves.

Hiring Natalie turned out to be one of my better decisions. My only problem with her was she kept trying to persuade me to hire Warren.

“It was okay,” I said. “Aren’t you two going to a concert or something?”

Warren showed signs of life. “Yeah, Nat, we’re going to be late.”

“Lisa called four times. She’s really upset you went out so soon after getting discharged. You better call her.”

I muttered something, caught Natalie’s eye. She chuckled. “You’ll always be her baby.”

Warren laughed derisively.

Yep, I was definitely getting tired of old Warren.

“I’ll give her a call. Lock up, will you?”

Natalie assented, and I went upstairs to my living quarters. Years ago I bought the building that now houses Cloak and Dagger Books with money I inherited from my paternal grandmother. At the time I thought it would be something to tide me over until my writing career took off.

I turned on the lights. The answering machine light was blinking red. Eight messages. I pressed Play.

“Darling…”

Lisa. I fast forwarded.

“Darling…”

Fast forward.

“Darling…”

Holy moly. Fast forward.

“Darling…”

Jeeeesus. Fast forward.

Fast forward.

Fast forward.

Fast forward.

Guy’s taped voice broke the silence of the apartment. “Hello, lover. How’d it go?”

Guy Snowden and I had met a couple years earlier, and we’d been seeing each other since Jake and I parted ways. I hit Stop on the machine, picked up the phone, but then considered.

If I called Guy now it wouldn’t be a quick call, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with what I was feeling, let alone his possible reaction.

I replaced the phone and went into the bathroom, avoiding looking at my hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror. I didn’t need a reminder that I looked like something the cat dragged in. I felt like something the cat dragged in -- after he chewed on it for a few hours. My chest hurt, my ribs hurt. Coughing really hurt, but suppressing the cough was a no-no because my lungs had to clear. A truly delightful process.