I waved good-bye and got in my Corolla. I’d decided to start my investigation where the whole mess began. At Rochelle’s. As unlikely as it seemed, maybe Rochelle was the killer. After all, she was the one who made the guacamole. And she was the one with the strongest motive. Hadn’t she told Marybeth, in no uncertain terms, to drop dead? Maybe the shy little mouse had gone bonkers and poisoned the woman who’d stolen her man. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Yes, my first stop would be a chat with Rochelle Meyers. Actually, my second stop. My first stop would be Junior’s Restaurant, for some bacon and eggs and an English muffin dripping with butter.

Several news vans were parked outside Rochelle’s house when I got there. I drove past them onto Rochelle’s driveway, scrunched down in my seat, hoping the reporters wouldn’t recognize me.

No such luck.

“Look!” a beauty pageant winner in Armani shouted. “It’s one of the suspects.”

Damn. If I looked like my driver’s license photo, I was in deep doo doo. Maybe I ought to start using the Age-Defying Miracle Moisturizer my mother had sent me from the shopping channel. (Only $27.99, plus shipping and handling.)

“It’s the writer,” I heard another one shout. “Whatshername. Charlotte Brontë.”

I scurried out of the Corolla, ignoring their questions.

When I rang the bell, an angry male voice shouted: “Go away! We’re not talking to reporters!”

I assumed it had to be Marty Meyers, Rochelle’s lying cheating sonofabitch husband.

“I’m not a reporter; I’m a member of the PMS club. Jaine Austen.”

“Let her in, Marty,” I heard Rochelle say.

The lying cheating sonofabitch opened the door.

I have to admit, I was surprised. I’d expected a slick Beverly Hills dentist straight off the set of Extreme Makeover, with graying temples and tassels on his Gucci loafers. But Marty was a big soft teddy bear, with a fuzzy crew cut and generous love handles hanging over his Gap khakis. Instead of a suave lothario, he looked like a guy buying plumbing supplies at Home Depot.

And that wasn’t the only surprise in store for me. I blinked, somewhat taken aback, to see his arm curled lovingly around Rochelle’s shoulder. Another entry for Mr. Ripley: Rochelle was beaming up at him, like a teenager with her first crush. For someone who was the prime suspect in a murder case, she looked amazingly chipper.

“Jaine, come on in,” she said, smiling warmly. “Can I get you something to eat? Marty and I just finished breakfast. I made blueberry crepes, and homemade sticky buns.”

Huh? If The Blob had done to me what Marty had done to her, I’d be serving him Raid on toast.

“No, thanks,” I stammered. “I just ate.”

“Are you sure. The sticky buns are awfully good, aren’t they, honey?”