The sergeant, a hard-eyed man in his late thirties, finished writing and said, “So that’s everyone, is it?”

Gloria ran through her mental checklist, then her hand flew to her mouth. I really didn’t think anyone did that any more. “I forgot Micky,” she wailed. “I’m sorry. Micky Hampton is Jett’s record producer. He’ll probably be in the studio—that’s in the cellar.”

“Don’t worry, it’s hard to remember everything at a time like this. You’ve obviously had a bit of a shock. I’m sorry to ask this, but we’re going to have to interview everyone as soon as possible. I’d appreciate it if one of you ladies could get everyone together,” he said.

“I’ll go,” I piped up. “I think Gloria should be with Jett right now.”

The look she shot at me was pure poison, but there was really nothing she could do about it. After all, she was the one who’d set herself up as Jett’s little helper. The policeman nodded and I swiftly got directions from Gloria. Jett clearly wasn’t going to let me walk away from this murder. And if I was going to have to investigate these choice specimens, I at least wanted to see how they reacted to the news.

Chapter   14

Tamar was my first target. For obvious reasons, her reaction to Moira’s death was the one that interested me most. I didn’t know what had been happening at Colcutt Manor in the six weeks since I’d dutifully delivered Moira, but the corpse downstairs told me plenty. Not everyone had been as thrilled by her return as Jett. At least one person had taken extreme measures to try to return things to the status quo ante. (I love legalese. Sometimes it sums things up so beautifully.) And even if Jett and Moira had no longer been an item, it can’t have been Easy Street for Tamar having Jett’s alleged soul mate under the same roof.

I knocked sharply on the paneled door Gloria had directed me to and didn’t wait for a reply. Crossing the threshold gave me the answer to one question at least. Jett and Tamar might be lovers, but he was clearly a man who liked his own sleeping space. This room was Tamar’s, no question.

It looked like a guest room where someone was camping out. The only light came from a flickering TV screen, but it was enough to show me the room was decorated in white and gold, with some very nasty still-life oils on the walls. Lots of dead pheasants and fruit. It was furnished in Louis Quinze style. The only straight edges were on the television, which was even housed in a hideous gilt cabinet. If someone had put me up there, I think I would have preferred to sleep in the bath.