I made my way through the house, past the movie stills, the promotional posters, the larger-than-life portrait in oil paint featuring Lurine in an ivory satin gown, her shoulders bare, her décolletage on pulchritudinous display.

Yeah, okay, it was kind of tacky, but in a totally awesome way.

It was painted shortly after Lurine left her career as a B-movie starlet to marry octogenarian real-estate tycoon Sanford Hollister. Naturally, there was some Anna Nicole Smith–esque tabloid scandal when he died within the year and left his fortune to her, but unlike the sad train wreck that was Anna Nicole, Lurine kept a low profile. As soon as the challenge to the will was overturned, Lurine retreated from the media spotlight altogether, returning to Pemkowet to live a fabulous and idyllic life.

For the record, I don’t actually know if she was responsible for her husband’s death, and I really, really don’t want to.

“Daisy, baby!” Lurine’s languid voice called to me as I opened the French doors onto the pool terrace. “There’s champagne in the fridge. Be a doll and bring a bottle and a couple of glasses, will you?”

“Sure.”

It was one of those high-end refrigerators that doesn’t even look like a fridge, with silky wood paneling on the doors. One whole section contained a built-in wine rack. I pulled out a bottle of Moët & Chandon, plucked a couple of champagne flutes from the gleaming, glass-fronted cupboard, and carried them out to the terrace.

Lurine’s house was situated on two wooded acres. The backyard, with its garden terrace and immense pool, was utterly secluded.

For most former B-movie starlets, that would afford the opportunity for sunbathing in the nude. For Lurine, it meant that she could luxuriate in the pool in her true form.

“Good to see you, cupcake.” Lurine lolled in the deep end of the pool, her arms slung carelessly along the edges, wet tendrils of golden hair spilling artfully over her deservedly famous breasts. At some point during the course of history, I’m pretty sure those boobs did lure men to their doom, possibly watery. She gave me a slow, lazy smile that hadn’t changed a bit since her mobile home days, dispelling any lingering unease I felt. The vast, sinuous length of her lower half filled the rest of the pool, looped and entwined coils gleaming with shifting hues of green and gold and blue, interspersed with iridescent crimson spots. It stirred the water with effortless, muscular grace, and my own little tail gave an involuntary twitch of envy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need a favor,” I admitted.

She patted the edge of the pool. “Bring that champagne over here, sit down, and tell me all about it. Ooh!” Her cornflower-blue eyes widened. “Is this police business? Is this about the boy who drowned?”