And I didn’t believe for a minute that he’d broken up with Marybeth on the day of the murder. If that were true, why had she been bragging to the PMS Club about marrying him?

I bet he didn’t even try to see her that day. Instead, he decided to get rid of her once and for all—before she had a chance to spread those nasty molestation rumors.

Marty Meyers wasn’t in Laguna Beach on the day of the murder. And he wasn’t at Marybeth’s apartment, either. If I was right, he was in his own kitchen, adding peanut oil to his wife’s guacamole.

It was a nifty theory. Too bad I didn’t have any evidence to back it up. If only I could prove that Marybeth had been blackmailing him, the cops would have to take him seriously as a murder suspect.

By the time I finally made it off the freeway I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. I wanted nothing more than to go home and soak in the tub till I was limp as a lo mein noodle.

But there was one tiny chore I had to take care of first.

I had to break into Marty’s office and search for Marybeth’s blackmail letters.

Chapter 21

“Can I help you, miss?”

The night security guard at Marty’s medical building looked up from the article he was reading in the National Enquirer—a hard-hitting piece of investigative journalism called I Was the Love Child of Condoleezza Rice and Barney Frank.

A skinny guy with a bobbing Adam’s apple, the guard’s name tag read “Chester.”

“Hi, Chester,” I said, plastering on my perkiest smile. “I’m Dr. Meyers’s new receptionist. First day on the job, and I’m working late already. Haha.”

I shrugged in mock helplessness, one working stiff to another.

I guess I must have passed muster as a dental receptionist burning the midnight oil, because he pointed to a large ledger on the marble counter and said:

“Just sign in.”

“Right,” I said, scribbling a fictitious name on the page.

He turned the book around and checked my entry.

“Mildred Pierce?”

I really had to start thinking up original phony names. Lucky for me, Chester wasn’t a fan of old Joan Crawford movies.

“Nice to meet you, Millie. Go right ahead.”

I started for the elevator, then slapped my forehead, hoping I looked like a person who’d just remembered she’d forgotten the key to her office.

“Darn,” I said. “Silly me. I forgot my key.” I offered up an apologetic smile. “Would you mind awfully letting me in?”

“Okay, Mil,” he sighed, tearing himself from the adventures of Condoleezza and Barney.

We rode up in the elevator together, Chester jingling his keys in time to the Muzak. Outside Marty’s office, he took out a master key from his pocket and let me in.