His lunch order complete, Lt. Webb hung up and turned his attention to me.

“Ms. Austen,” he said, tapping the eraser end of a pencil into the cleft in his chin. “How can I help you?”

“Actually, I’m here on behalf of my client, Heidi Kingsley.”

“Your client? I thought you were a writer.”

“I am. But occasionally I work as a private investigator.”

And it’s true. I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’ve actually helped solve two murders. (Which you can read all about in This Pen for Hire and Last Writes, now available in paperback at a book store near you.)

“You have a P.I. license?” Webb asked.

“No, not exactly,” I admitted. “But I really did help solve those murders. One in Hollywood last year, and one in Westwood.”

Okay, so I do like to toot my own horn.

“Two whole murders, huh?”

I decided to ignore that.

“Heidi’s afraid you think she killed SueEllen,” I said.

Webb sat back in his chair, still tapping the cleft in his chin with his pencil. Maybe that’s how it got so big, from constant pencil-tapping.

“Seeing as you’ve solved two whole murders,” he said, with a most annoying smirk, “I’ll tell you this much: We’re not ready to charge Heidi with SueEllen’s murder. Not yet, anyway.”

Ouch. I didn’t like the sound of that.

“What makes you think she could have possibly done it?”

“Two dozen people at her birthday party heard her say she wished SueEllen was dead. And the very next day, her wish came true. Plus, your client was the only one home on the day of the murder.”

He grabbed a pad from his desk, and consulted his notes.

“Hal Kingsley was in his office. His nurse has vouched for him.”

“Yeah, the same nurse who’s having an affair with him. Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

He looked up from his notes.

“Do you know for a fact they’re having an affair?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure they are.”

“We can’t bring charges against a man because you’re ‘pretty sure’ he’s boffing his nurse. And besides, the receptionist also backs up his alibi. You think he’s sleeping with her, too?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Like I was saying,” Webb continued, ignoring my valuable input, “your client was the only one home the day of the murder. Her father was in his office. Her brother was having lunch in the Beverly High football stadium with three of his buddies.”

“Friends have been known to lie for each other.”

“And the maid was away on her day off with her boyfriend.”

I blinked in surprise.

“Conchi has a boyfriend?”

“A gardener. Works down the street from the Kingsleys.”

Wow. Talk about inspirational. If a scared rabbit like Conchi could land a boyfriend, there was hope for all of us.

“What about the blonde Heidi saw in the hallway?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said, oozing skepticism. “The mysterious blonde.”

“SueEllen’s masseuse is blonde. Maybe it was her.”