“Do you mind if I answer that, officer? The owner of the gallery gets pissy if I don’t answer the phone.”

“Go right ahead.”

She hurried to the phone, her hair rippling in silky waves as she ran.

“Montague Gallery,” she squeaked into the phone. “Oh, Marty! I’m so glad it’s you.” Relief flooded her voice. “The police are here, questioning me.”

Uh-oh. This was my cue to exit.

“Yes, a police officer is here right now. What did you say your name was, ma’am?”

“Um. Krupke. Officer Krupke.”

Okay, so I panicked and gave her the name of a character from West Side Story. Big deal. Don’t tell me you never panic under pressure.

“Wait a minute,” she said. A light bulb went off over that fabulous head of hair.

“That’s not the name you gave me before.”

“That’s because I’m working undercover. Well, gotta run if I don’t want to hit rush hour traffic.”

And before you could say Officer Krupke, I was back in my car and headed for the freeway.

It turns out I did get stuck in rush hour traffic. I inched home that afternoon at an agonizing pace. Pedestrians were making better time than I was.

But on the plus side, I had plenty of time to think about what I’d learned that day. Clearly Marty Meyers was the unmitigated rat we’d all thought he was when we first learned of his affair with Marybeth. Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Cheating on Rochelle with Nurse Medusa. Then cheating on N.M. with Marybeth. And then cheating on all three of them with Cissy. The man deserved a gold medal in adultery.

What a fool I’d been to be taken in by his Academy Award–winning performance as The Loving Husband.

And I wasn’t the only fool. Poor Cissy. She actually thought Marty was going to marry her. Marty had no intention of marrying Cissy, Nurse Medusa, or anyone else for that matter. Why pay alimony to Rochelle when he could have all the sex he wanted on the side? And if Rochelle went to jail for the murder of Marybeth, then he wouldn’t even have to sneak around any more. He could go on non-stop boffathons between jail visits.

Lord knows what he told the cops. Maybe he told them Rochelle was mentally unstable, a nutcase ready to crack. Maybe he didn’t come right out and say it, maybe he just implied it, laid in a subtle hint or two that Rochelle was emotionally fragile, on the verge of a breakdown. While pretending to champion her, he could’ve been planting the seed of suspicion in the cops’ minds. Who better to know the mental state of Rochelle than her husband?