“Sure do. I found the bimbo’s business card in the glove compartment of Marty’s car—along with a pair of crotchless panties.”

“Can I have it?”

“Honey, I don’t think they’d fit you.”

“Not the panties. The business card.”

“Help yourself,” she said, pointing to her wastepaper basket. “It’s in there somewhere.”

I spent the next few minutes rummaging through Nurse Medusa’s trash. Which was a fairly pukeworthy experience, considering she had the unfortunate habit of tossing her used gum in the garbage unwrapped.

At last I unearthed it.

THE MONTAGUE GALLERY

444 LAGUNA AVENUE

LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

CISSY MCDONALD

SALES ASS

Cissy McDonald may or may not have been an ass. That remained to be seen. I just assumed that the card was supposed to have read “sales associate.” The “ociate” was covered by a wad of Juicy Fruit.

I wrote down the address of the gallery and headed for the door, just in time to see my buxom friend coming out from what must have been Marty’s office—with a flat-screen TV tucked under her arm.

Chapter 20

The first thing you noticed about Cissy McDonald was her hair.

It was shampoo commercial gorgeous, a silken blonde blanket falling nearly to her waist. Of course, if you were a guy, the first thing you’d notice would be her cleavage. That was pretty darn spectacular, too. As were her nonstop legs and to die-for waistline.

And in the Life Isn’t Fair Department, the lucky young woman was also blessed with big blue eyes, a perky little nose and, as I was about to discover, an amazing pair of dimples when she smiled. It was easy to see why Marty had dumped Nurse Medusa for her. It was no contest. And poor Rochelle—with her thinning hair and thickening waist—she didn’t stand a chance.

“Hi, there,” Cissy chirped as I walked into the gallery, a sleek boutique on Laguna’s picturesque main drag. The walls were hung with colorful seascapes and cottage-y scenes, expensive souvenirs of a Laguna Beach vacation. It was the middle of the week, and I was happy to see that she and I were alone in the gallery.

“How may I be of assistance?” she said, flashing me her dimples. They must have netted her a lot of sales. “We have some wonderful new seascapes.” She gestured to a wall of pastel watercolors. “Aren’t they marvelous?”

You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Cissy was no rocket scientist. I could practically see the little valentines dotting her i’s as she spoke.

“Cissy McDonald?” I asked.

“That’s me,” she said, a note of wariness creeping into her voice.

“Detective Austen,” I said, in my most officious voice. “L.A.P.D.”