I looked crummy and felt crummier. What’s worse, I’d lost all confidence in my ability to help Rochelle beat her murder rap. What on earth made me think the cops were going to take me seriously? Suddenly I wasn’t even sure Marty was the killer. All the facts pointed to him, but something was bothering me. I had this strange feeling that I’d been given a valuable clue that day, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

By the time I got off the freeway, I was already forty-five minutes late. Nothing like getting off to a great start on my first assignment. I seriously considered turning around and going home. But I’d come this far; I might as well see it through.

I checked myself out in my rearview mirror and sighed. No miracle had happened on the ride over. I still looked like crap. I reached for a tissue and blotted my lipstick.

Isn’t it strange how little things can be so important? If I hadn’t blotted my lipstick, I never would’ve figured out the truth.

Because when I glanced down at the tissue, that elusive little clue swimming around in my brain came bubbling up to the surface. At last I knew what had been nagging at me—the lottery ticket I’d found in Pam’s purse at lunch that afternoon. At the time, I’d noticed a red stain on the ticket. I thought it was the jelly from Pam’s donut. But now, looking down at my tissue, I realized it wasn’t a jelly stain I’d seen on the ticket—but a lipstick blot.

I remembered that first meeting of the PMS Club, when Marybeth held up her winning lottery ticket and kissed it. She’d left a candy red lipstick blot on the ticket. The same blot I’d seen on the ticket in Pam’s purse.

What, I wondered, was Pam doing with Marybeth’s ticket?

Suddenly I felt queasy. A horrible thought struck me. Could Pam have possibly killed Marybeth for the $50,000 lottery money? Maybe there was no Bucko Burger commercial. Maybe the windfall she was about to receive was from the State of California. Maybe she stole Marybeth’s ticket and then killed her before Marybeth could figure out what she’d done.

I pulled up to the Stratford and gave my car to a valet.

“You going to the Chang-Germanetti wedding?” he asked, eyeing my ghastly bridesmaid gown.

“No, the Union National party.”

“Really? You’re wearing that to the Union National party? Major fashion boo-boo.”

Okay, he didn’t really say that. He just shrugged and said, “Rooftop Terrace.”

I headed inside and crossed the lobby of the venerable old hotel, with its original architectural moldings and massive crystal chandeliers.

Could it be? I thought, as I rang for the elevator. Was Pam, my new second-best friend, actually a killer?