“No,” she said. “I’m Hal’s mother.”

“Really?” I said, blinking in surprise. “Well, nice to meet you, Mrs. Kingsley.”

“It’s not Kingsley,” she snorted. “It’s Kosciusko. Hal changed it when he moved out here and became a big shot plastic surgeon.”

Why was I not surprised? This was Los Angeles, where everybody writes—and rewrites—their own life scripts.

“Heidi told me what a good friend you’ve been.” She put her arm around her granddaughter and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “She could use a good friend. Frankly, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but that SueEllen was a stinker.”

She wasn’t going to get any argument from me.

“I knew she was trouble the minute she came on the scene. Now that’s the girl Hal should have married.”

I followed her gaze to one of the sofas, where Ginny was chatting with Hal.

“Yes, if only he’d married Ginny like he was supposed to, this poor child would’ve been a lot better off.”

Hello. This was news to me.

“Hal was supposed to marry Ginny?”

“Oh, yes. He gave her a ring and set the date. Everything was fine until SueEllen decided she wanted him.”

Okay, folks. Let’s rewind the tape. What was all that malarky Ginny told me about only dating musicians? She never mentioned having a fling with Hal. If SueEllen had stolen Hal away from her, then Ginny might’ve hated her all these years. I could easily picture Ginny in her crappy apartment, thinking about SueEllen living in splendor, and saying to herself, That should’ve been me! Yes, Ginny could’ve been harboring a giant resentment, all right. One that might have exploded in murder.

Rats. The one person I thought couldn’t possibly have done it was back in the running.

Chapter Sixteen

I drove home on Suspect Overload, my mind reeling with murder scenarios. It seemed like anybody could have killed SueEllen. Hal, Brad, Eduardo, Larkspur, Nurse Denise, or—much to my dismay—the likeable Ginny. Who knows? Maybe Grandma Kosciusko flew in a few days early and bumped off her annoying daughter-in-law.

It was time to take out my trusty legal pad and write out a list of suspects. Writing things out, I’ve discovered, helps me clarify my thoughts. And at this point, my thoughts needed all the clarifying they could get.

“Hi, honey. I’m home,” I called out as I let myself into my apartment.

Prozac looked up from where she was napping on my pantyhose and yawned.

“Just once,” I said, sweeping her up in my arms, “can’t you be excited to see me?”

As if in answer to my request, she started licking my face, like a puppy in a Hallmark commercial.

“Prozac, honey, I didn’t know you cared.”

And then, of course, I realized why she was playing kissy face. It was the deli. She smelled pastrami and corned beef on my breath. She leapt out of my arms and started running around my ankles in crazed circles, which is cat talk for When do we eat?