Before starting the car, I took another look at myself in my rearview mirror. Yikes. My hair really was a disaster. I looked like a cross between Little Orphan Annie and Albert Einstein.

I reached into my bag for my hairbrush to tame down my mop. But the brush I pulled out wasn’t mine. My brush is a $2.79 plastic SavOn special. This brush was one of those fancy British boar bristle models. And then I recognized it. It was Ashley’s brush, the one she was using at the Brentwood Day Spa. I must’ve grabbed it by accident in the locker room.

As long as I was out in Malibu, I decided to stop by Ashley’s place and return it. If indeed the murderer was trying to get me to stop my investigation, it wasn’t going to work. I may be a sniveling weakling, but nobody can say I’m not a foolhardy sniveling weakling.

Yes, I’d go to Ashley’s. It would be a perfect opportunity to ask her some more questions. Maybe this time she’d remember seeing something incriminating.

If not, maybe she’d treat me to an expensive lunch. I sure could use one.

I drove up the winding road to Ashley’s house—correction, palace—in Malibu. It was a sprawling Mediterranean extravaganza, studded with elaborate arches and balconies, very Tuscany-by-the-sea.

I was puzzled by the landscaping, though. All the plants were overgrown, and the lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Maybe this was the latest thing in landscaping: the Vacant Lot Look. Or maybe Ashley was simply between gardeners.

I rang her doorbell, but no one came to the door. After a minute or so, I rang again. Still no answer. Which surprised me, because Ashley’s Jag was parked right there in the driveway. She had to be home. I pressed the buzzer one more time.

“Who the hell is it?” she finally called out.

“It’s Jaine. Jaine Austen.”

I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Ashley opened the door, in a flowing silk caftan, holding a glass of what smelled like gin.

“Jaine!” She looked at me in dismay. “What are you doing here?”

Not exactly the warm and fuzzy greeting I’d been hoping for.

I smiled weakly and fished her hairbrush from my purse.

“I took your brush by mistake the other day, and I happened to be in the neighborhood so I thought I’d return it.”

“Thanks, hon,” she said, snatching it from me. “You’re a doll for bringing it by.”

She made no move to invite me in.

First Doris, now Ashley. Clearly these two were not fans of unexpected guests.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the murder.”

“Oh.” She took a slug of her gin, still blocking the doorway.

“Mind if I come in?”