Next to her, the “inevitably wooden” Stuart Bretton lay staring up at nothing. Muscular arms pumped. Squarely handsome, wavy-haired visage blank as dirt.

Olna pointing a gun.

Close-up on the weapon: double-barreled derringer. Side-by-side barrels. Stubby, nasty-looking weapon, the snout barely long enough to extend past her gloved hands.

Close-up on Stu Bretton’s face. Caricature of surprise.

Close-up on Stu Bretton’s beefcake physique, facedown on the bed, a bloody blotch between his shoulder blades.

Close-up on Olna Fremont’s face. Surprised.

Long shot of cops, uniformed and plainclothed and armed.

Olna. Beautiful, peaceful. The bullet hole centering her smooth, white forehead the period on a final sentence.

I said, “Life imitates art but only to a point. They let you keep your face.”

Leona reached for the laptop.

I drew it out of reach, continued to give her a full view of the last scene she’d ever filmed.

She said, “Why the hell shouldn’t I go get my Glock?”

“I’m sure if you tried, you’d score a hit. Where’d you learn? Kansas?”

She smiled. “Rural life can be wonderful. And daddies love little girls eager to learn. Did you know gophers explode like little meatballs?” She rose to her feet, tussled my hair again. Took the time for a harder yank and studied my reaction.

When I moved to stay her hand, she pulled out of reach, flipped her hand like a geisha fan, and slapped my face.

Smiling as if she’d pulled off a first-take masterpiece performance, she glided toward the door. “Unless you’ve got a death wish, you’ll be gone when I return.”

I said, “Unless you’ve got a death wish, you’ll cool it with the D-list acting and pay attention.”

She came toward me, fists at chest level, poised to strike.

“Bad idea, Leona. Family’s the glue that holds society together.”

She stopped short but kept her arms up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve done at least one thing well. Those boys of yours get along great. Be a shame to change that.”

One arm dropped, then the other. She gazed around her roomful of treasures.

Sat back down.

Chapter 38

said nothing for a while. Allowed her thoughts to take over.

Whatever drifted through her mind clouded her eyes. She sat trance-like. For a moment I thought she’d dissociate. She shook herself clear. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”

“One thing we can agree upon, Leona. The cops aren’t geniuses. Truth is, they’re pretty limited intellectually. So sometimes when a case gets interesting, I go off on my own and discover things that elude them.” I shrugged. “Sometimes my discoveries turn out profitable.”

“Ah, the inevitable,” she said. “You’re a whore but a high-priced one. Okay, let’s get down to business: What do you think you might know and how much are you fantasizing you can get for it?”