“If SueEllen’s ghost is here,” I said, “I know a great way to get rid of her. Just ask her to help with the housework.”

Conchi looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry, Miss Jaine. No comprende.”

“Forget it, Conchi. I was just kidding.”

She smiled a nervous smile, as if she thought I was the loony one, and started spritzing Windex at a huge gilt mirror. A fat lot of good she’d be comforting Heidi; the woman was scared of her own shadow.

I said goodbye to Conchi and headed out the front door, just in time to see Larkspur pulling up the driveway in a lemon yellow Beetle.

“Hey, Jaine,” she chirped, reaching in to the backseat of her car for her massage table.

Was it possible? Didn’t she know that SueEllen was dead?

“You’re here awfully early,” she said, crunching up the gravel walk.

“Larkspur, haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“SueEllen is dead.”

“Holy shit.”

She blinked her big blue baby doll eyes.

“She was murdered. Electrocuted in her bathtub.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Her baby blues grew even bigger. “I don’t believe it. Do they know who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“This is terrible,” she said, absently raking fingers through her hair. “Is Hal—I mean, Mr. Kingsley—home?”

“Nope. He’s playing racquetball.”

“Oh,” she said, standing there in a daze. “Well, then. I guess I’d better go.”

She got back in her car and sat behind the wheel for a minute or so until she finally remembered to put the key in the ignition.

Larkspur seemed genuinely shocked. If she was faking it, she was a hell of a good actress. Of course, this was L.A., where everyone and their uncle is a would-be actor. So for all I knew, her shock was something she’d been rehearsing all morning.

Maybe Larkspur was faking it; maybe she wasn’t. One thing was for sure: I’d been faking it when I assured Heidi that the cops didn’t suspect her of murder. I’d have bet my bottom dollar she was their Number One Suspect. Which is why I decided to pay a little visit to the Beverly Hills cops.

A sand-colored building dotted with pretty pastel mosaic tiles, the Beverly Hills police precinct looked like something featured in Betters Homes and Gardens. It was all so sparkle clean and upscale; I was surprised it didn’t have a gift shop.

I found the Clint Eastwood lookalike at his desk, barking orders into the phone.

“I want it right away,” he was saying, his jaw rigid with determination. “And I don’t want any mistakes.”

He was probably ordering lab tests. Or fingerprints. Or maybe even an autopsy of SueEllen’s body.

He motioned me to a seat in front of his desk.

“You sure you got it?” he snapped. “That’s a Chinese chicken salad, dressing on the side. And a mocha frappucino, hold the whipped cream.”

So much for my autopsy theory; the guy was ordering lunch. Chinese chicken salad. Only in Beverly Hills do cops order Chinese chicken salad for lunch.