Then I walked away, head held high, shoulders erect, and—as I was about to discover minutes later in the elevator—toilet paper stuck to the heel of my shoe.

Chapter 19

The PMS Murder was back in the headlines the next day:

DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE CHARGED WITH HOMICIDE; OUT ON ONE MILLION DOLLARS BAIL.

Underneath the headline in the L.A. Times was a photo of Rochelle shielding her face from the camera with her handbag. I recognized her wispy ponytail peeking out from behind the Gucci Gs on her purse. Poor Rochelle. What a miscarriage of justice.

I put in another call to Lieutenant Clemmons. Once more, I got his voice mail. I slammed down the phone in frustration and called back on the central number, where I told the desk sergeant on duty that I absolutely positively had to speak to Clemmons, that it was a matter of life and death.

A few seconds later Clemmons was on the line.

“What the hell do you want?”

Okay, so his exact words were, “How can I help you?”

I took a deep breath and told him everything I’d discovered, how Marybeth had been indirectly responsible for Glen Jenkins’s death, how Ashley desperately needed the money from Marybeth’s will, and how Colin had been boning up on Cooking with Peanuts.

To say that he was unimpressed is putting it mildly. I could practically hear him dozing in the background.

“Thank you for your input,” he said, when I was through, “but we feel we have a very solid case against Mrs. Meyers.”

“But what about my theories? Aren’t you even going to consider them?”

“Rest assured, we’ll give your crackpot theories the attention they deserve.”

Okay, so he didn’t use the word crackpot, but he might as well have. I could hear it in his voice.

I hung up and sighed. Clemmons had the case wrapped up tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift. And he wasn’t about to take direction from a part-time detective in waist-nipper pantyhose. I only hoped Rochelle had herself a damn good defense attorney.

I was sitting on my sofa, feeling helpless and hopeless and wondering how many calories there were in the seven martini olives I’d had for breakfast, when Pam called.

“I just heard the news about Rochelle,” she said. “It’s crazy. She didn’t kill anybody. The woman is afraid to hang up on telemarketers, for crying out loud.”

“Go tell it to the cops. They sure aren’t listening to me.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Nothing, short of staging a prison break if she gets convicted.”

I guess she could hear the misery in my voice.

“Don’t feel bad, Jaine. You tried your best.”

“I suppose so,” I sighed.

“I feel guilty bringing this up when Rochelle’s in so much trouble,” she said, “but I’ve got some good news to share.”