“It’s good.” Oliver shrugged. “I’ll see it again.”

“I’ll check out who has the cheapest seats possible.” Marge readjusted her purse over her shoulder. “I’m off to see Yvette Jackson with a six-pack ID lineup. Wanna come with me?”

“Yeah, sure.” Oliver stood up and put on his jacket. “We should run our Las Vegas junket by the Loo. I’m sure we could get some recompense for it.”

“We could make a good case for it,” Marge said. “Except the O tickets.”

“Then we just have to figure out a good way of presenting it to accounting. How about…how about a refresher course in emergency medicine and CPR?”

Marge laughed. “And how do figure that?”

“All those women underwater…what if one of them suddenly gets a cramp?”

“Uh-huh, and how do you propose to help?”

“I’m very good at deep massages.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

IT WAS ONE in the afternoon, but Yvette Jackson was still in her robe—a dusty rose satin dressing gown. Her apartment was a studio done up in Old Hollywood. Her daybed was dressed in heart pillows and a pink satin comforter. She also had a camel-back white couch with silk pillows, and a glass-and-chrome coffee table adorned with a vase of lilies. Her kitchenette was tiny. A lone coffeemaker sat on the counter. With Yvette’s blue eyes, her buxom build, and her white-blond hair that fell carelessly at her shoulders, she could have been the heroine of a screwball comedy from the forties. Except her eyes were red-rimmed and her expression was somber.

“Thanks for seeing us,” Oliver told her.

“I agreed before I found out.” She flopped on the white couch and drew a blanket over her chest. “I called in sick. I’m not going back to that place until I know what’s going on. I’m scared.”

“Who told you about Crystal’s murder?” Marge took out her notebook.

“One of the bartenders—Joe Melon, who heard it from Jack Henry—one of the owners of Garage.” She tucked the blanket under her chin. “At this point, I don’t know how smart it would be to get involved.”

Marge said. “We don’t know who we’re dealing with. If it has something to do with Garage, the sooner we get identification, the better it is for all of us.”

“You really think it’s someone from the bar?”

Marge evaded the question. “Do you know if Crystal was having any trouble with anyone from Garage?”

“A patron or someone who worked there?”

“Either, both,” Oliver said.