I wasn’t buying a word of it. I saw that look in her eyes when she told me how Marybeth had offered to loan her money at one percent below the prevailing bank rate. Ashley loved Marybeth about as much as she loved the guy who towed away her Jag.

“It was really so sweet of Marybeth to leave me money in her will,” Ashley gushed. “I had no idea I was going to inherit anything, of course. What a wonderful surprise.”

(Translation: If you’re going to try to pin this murder on me, forget it. I didn’t have a motive.)

I still wasn’t buying it. She knew she was going to inherit, all right. What she didn’t know was how much. It would’ve been just like Marybeth to raise Ashley’s hopes and tell her she was leaving her a bundle, only to disappoint her from the grave.

But I pretended to believe Ashley’s song and dance and made a lot of “I understand” noises. What good would it do to challenge her? I had no proof that she knew about the will. No proof at all.

Her mission accomplished, Ashley bid me a cheery good-bye and hung up, undoubtedly to start in on a fresh bottle of gin.

I, on the other hand, had that danish to demolish. But I hadn’t gotten two steps toward the bathroom when I heard Lance banging at my front door.

“Jaine! Let me in!”

I took one last longing look at the bathroom and then opened the front door.

“Isn’t it great?” Lance said, bounding into my living room. “I knew all along Colin was innocent!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The news. Haven’t you seen it on TV? They just charged Rochelle Meyers with the murder of Marybeth Olson.”

Damn.

I raced to the bedroom and turned on the television. Sure enough, there was footage of Rochelle being led into police headquarters, Marty at her side. Marty held her elbow protectively but could not shield her from the shouting reporters. Poor Rochelle. She looked like a rabbit caught in a steel trap.

But Lance was oblivious to Rochelle’s plight.

“From the moment I saw Colin,” Lance started babbling, “I knew he wasn’t a killer. Nobody with eyelashes like his could possibly commit murder. And I happen to be an excellent judge of character.”

Yeah, right. This from the guy who once dated a “neurosurgeon” for three months before he found out he was wanted in three states for check kiting and impersonating a nun.

I sat at the edge of my bed as an on-the-scene reporter droned on about how Rochelle, wealthy Brentwood housewife and founding member of the PMS Club, would undoubtedly be released on bail.