“There’s an art gallery there that we like. He went there to buy some paintings for his office. In fact, right after I found the picture of Marybeth, I called his office. I wanted to have it out with him, but his receptionist told me he was in Laguna. I thought she was lying, that he was with Marybeth. But he really was down in Laguna. Yesterday, I called the gallery and checked. And so did the police. Marty’s in the clear.”

Frankly, I was relieved Marty had an alibi. In spite of the fact that he’d behaved abominably toward Rochelle, he didn’t seem like an evil man. Picturing him as a killer was like trying to picture Smoky the Bear with an Uzi.

But Colin Lambert, the resentful assistant—him, I wasn’t so sure about.

Chapter 14

I showed up at Colin’s apartment unannounced. He came to the door in a T-shirt and cutoffs—yet another guy with thighs thinner than mine.

“Jaine,” he said, puzzled at the sight of me. “What’re you doing here?”

“Actually—”

“Don’t tell me. You came because you wanted a shoulder to cry on. I saw that picture in the paper. You ought to sue.”

“Well, no. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating Marybeth’s murder.”

“Oh?”

Was it my imagination, or was there suddenly a guarded look in his eyes?

“I work part-time as a private investigator,” I explained.

“Really?” he said, ushering me inside. “How very Charlie’s Angels.”

I took one look at his living room and stifled a gasp. How can I best describe it? What’s the one word that sums it all up? Or, as the French would say, le mot juste?

After careful thought and many trips to the thesaurus, here’s what I’ve come up with: Acccck!

Colin’s living room was a blinding combination of lime green walls, potted palms, zebra-skin rugs, and sequined throw pillows. Tarzan meets Elton John.

“Striking, isn’t it?” he asked.

Yeah. Like a migraine.

“Say hi to Max.”

He walked over to one of the potted palms, where I saw a bright yellow parrot perched in the branches. Colin held out his finger, and Max jumped on board.

“Max, honey,” Colin cooed to the bird, “say hi to Jaine. Say Hi, Jaine.”

The parrot looked at me with weary eyes and pooped onto the zebra skin rug.

“Dammit, Max. How many times have I told you? Poop in your cage, not on the rug.”

He put the bird inside an ornate wrought-iron birdcage, the bottom of which was lined with old publicity stills of Marybeth.

“Go ahead. Make doo-doo on the nice lady,” he instructed the bird.

“I know it’s awful,” he said, turning to me, “having Max defecate on the dead. I’m disgraceful, aren’t I?”

And then he shot me a smile that undoubtedly melted many a heart in West Hollywood.