True, I didn’t have hypoglycemia—or apple juice, either. But it didn’t matter. By the time Larkspur got back to the living room, I’d pretend I was feeling better. Then, after she’d gone, I’d pore over her book and find out the names of her clients and do my test run. Maybe I’d even solve the murder, stunning the cops with my investigative acumen.

Now all I had to do was wait for the massage to be over. After all, it was costing me two hundred bucks; I might as well get my money’s worth. I closed my eyes, wondering if Larkspur really could get rid of my cellulite. Wouldn’t it be great if she could? I let my mind drift to that Caribbean beach she’d been talking about. I saw myself walking along the shoreline in a string bikini, my thighs as smooth and silky as hot fudge sauce. Then, just as I was making smoldering eye contact with a bronzed cabana boy, I heard Larkspur chirp:

“All done!”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “You just started.”

“No,” she said, “it’s been almost an hour.”

I checked my wristwatch. She was right. It had been almost an hour.

“You fell asleep.”

“I did?”

“It’s the tea,” she said, nodding. “It’s very relaxing. Lots of my clients fall asleep.”

And then I realized: I didn’t have to go through my phony hypoglycemic attack. I didn’t have to steal the appointment book, or question Larkspur’s clients, or do any test drives from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills.

Because I already knew how Larkspur could have killed SueEllen.

She could have drugged her client with her tree bark tea. Then she could have moseyed over to SueEllen’s and tossed the hair dryer in the tub, knowing she had all the time in the world—because her client was sound asleep on the massage table, dreaming of cellulite-free thighs.

I barely contained my impatience as Larkspur packed up her things.

“Remember,” she said. “Stay away from dairy products. And caffeine!”

Then she whipped out her appointment book and asked if I’d like to schedule another massage. I told her I’d get back to her. Yeah, right. I’d get back to her. When Oreos weren’t fattening, that’s when I’d get back to her.

The minute she was gone, I dashed to the phone, and called Lt. Webb.

“What is it now?” was his cordial opening line.

“I’ve got news for you,” I said. “Larkspur O’Leary’s alibi isn’t as ironclad as you think it is.”

“Hold on a sec,” he said, then shouted out to somebody else in the room. “I want the ahi nicoise salad and a Diet Coke. And make sure the ahi is rare.”

Our tax dollars at work.

“You were saying?” he said, grudgingly turning his attention back to me.

“I know how Larkspur could have killed SueEllen.”

“Is that so?”

And I told him about the tea.

“Well, I’ve got news for you, too,” he said when I was through.

My heart sank; something in his voice told me it wasn’t going to be good news.