Was it my imagination, or was there a vast anti-dairy conspiracy underfoot? First, there was the guy outside the latte shop, then Eduardo with that ghastly non-dairy glop in his blender, and now Larkspur. Was I the only person in Greater Los Angeles who still felt any allegiance to Elsie the cow?

“Now roll over on your tummy.”

After I rolled, she started slathering a lovely lavender-scented oil on my back. A delicious warmth seeped into my muscles. I was feeling very mellow. But this wasn’t the time to be mellow, I reminded myself. I had a suspect to question.

“Such a shame about SueEllen,” I threw out for my opening gambit.

Larkspur wasn’t having any of it. She put her finger to her rosebud lips, and shushed me.

“No negative thoughts. Otherwise, you won’t be totally relaxed.”

“Right,” I muttered.

“Close your eyes, and imagine yourself on a beach, somewhere in the Caribbean. I hear Jamaica’s awfully nice if you don’t mind the hostile townspeople. Imagine yourself lying in the sand, the palm trees swaying, cooling you with soft breezes.”

I tried imagining myself on the beach, but frankly, all I could think about was how crappy I’d look in a bathing suit with my large-curd cellulite. No doubt about it; one of these days, I was really going to have to lose a few pounds.

In the meanwhile, though, I had a suspect to question. And no idea how to do it. Larkspur clearly didn’t want to talk about the murder. How was I going to pump her for information? Why the heck hadn’t I worked out a game plan in advance? First I’d wasted time pretending to look at Eduardo’s paintings, and now I was throwing away $200 on a massage that was getting me nowhere. I obviously had a lot to learn about the detective biz.

I was feeling quite annoyed with myself when I happened to glance down at Larkspur’s open tote bag. And that’s when I saw it: a looseleaf binder with the word “appointments” embossed in gold on the cover.

At that moment I knew what I had to do. I had to steal that book.

According to Lt. Webb, Larkspur had been with clients out in Santa Monica the day SueEllen was murdered. He said she wouldn’t have had time to drive over to Beverly Hills and toss a hair dryer into SueEllen’s tub between appointments. But maybe Larkspur could have driven from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills in time to kill SueEllen. It would all depend on traffic, and exactly where in Santa Monica her clients lived. If I could find out where Larkspur’s appointments were on the day of the murder, I could do a test run, and drive the distance myself.

Yes, I’d have to steal the book. The question, of course, was how.

And then I thought of an absolutely brilliant idea. I’d pretend I was having a hypoglycemic attack and send Larkspur into the kitchen to get me some apple juice. Then, while she was in the kitchen, I’d hide the book under one of the sofa cushions. I’d seen a similar plan on an old episode of Three’s Company, the one where Jack is trying to get rid of Mr. Roper so he won’t discover the chimpanzee he’s got hidden in the hall closet. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t brilliant, but it was all I could think of at the time.